


Mama

by Feech



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU: Slavery, Abuse, Cooking, Cora is not a Hale, Derek first appears in Chapter 9, Explicit Sex, Isaac first appears in Chapter 17, M/M, Master Derek, Masturbation, Minor Character Deaths, Multi, Neglect, Past Kidnapping, Past Rape, Past Torture, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Romance, Sheriff Stilinski's name is Shannon, Slave Isaac Lahey, Slave Sheriff Stilinski, Slave Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Taxidermy, Villain Theo Raeken, consensual sex at 17 years of age, consenting at 17 years old, full shift lycanthropes, past Kate Argent, scent-marking, showering together, urine marking (tame), watersports (tame)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-06-14 21:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 127,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15397593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feech/pseuds/Feech
Summary: ********Talia moves. She's been lying on her side, with her  cheek propped on one hand. Now her topmost shoulder rises and her arm comes up and forward—not a lot, but that's where Stiles was going to be. He was going to go over her. Talia places her hand on top of Stiles's head, and Stiles ducks and pushes his face through the space between her hand and her elbow. She drops her hand to Stiles's shoulder and squeezes. Stiles whines and flinches, lifting his shoulder thoughtlessly to get her hand off. Master Derek's claws scratch Stiles's spine through his pajama top. Stiles bats and scratches at Talia's arm. "Hey," she says, and releases his shoulder. Her eyes glint red, and Stiles's heart flips over in his chest. He rushes forward again, but Talia's hand encloses his arm. Stiles doesn't have time for this. Derek's claws slide on his sweaty skin, into the hairs at the back of his neck. Stiles chomps down hard on Talia's upper arm. "Ow," says Alpha Hale.********





	1. What Happened at Duke's

**Author's Note:**

> Love, and a huge thank you to my intrepid beta reader, my husband, [Channing](https://scrivnarium.wordpress.com/)
> 
> I got the initial idea for this story from [Bodies Can Be Bought...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379439?view_full_work=true) by kyrene. I did not use the "Inspired By" tag because they are thematically very different stories (although those who have read the first half of BCBB will recognize some similar scenes). _Mama_ would not have existed if I had not seen "Bodies Can Be Bought..." first, but _Mama_ stands alone, and you do not need to read BCBB to understand this story.
> 
> Scent-marking in _Mama_ is not a romantic act, and is not exclusive to 'shipped couples. If I were rating this only for the urine marking, it would be Teen. The Explicit rating is for sex and violence.
> 
> ********

********

Once, when he was nine years old, Stiles was stepped on by a fully-shifted werewolf. Aiden was still a pup, only a couple of years older than Stiles, and very big and clumsy; Stiles was little for his age and also clumsy, so it was bound to happen. At least, so said Stiles's father. He also technically said that Stiles wasn't supposed to be in the big hall where all the werewolves were milling around. Specifically, Dad's exact words had been, "Stay out of the main hall. There's lots of wolves moving around in there and you're so small, you'll get stepped on."

Stiles's dad is pretty smart.

Aiden heard Stiles squeaking and turned back human right away. He had stepped on Stiles pretty thoroughly, hitting him with a couple of paws full of claws. Aiden hauled Stiles up off the floor, and sniffed his ripped uniform shirt hem and torn trousers. He poked at the ankle he had pushed down into with his claws. "Are you okay?"

Stiles felt a little woozy. "Pretty okay."

"Can you walk on it?"

"Sure." Stiles limped a couple of steps to prove it, but then winced and had to reach down toward his ankle.

Aiden took hold of Stiles's elbow and eased him back into a sitting position. "Hang on." He wrapped Stiles's ankle in his hand. Stiles felt something like a rough pull, and the pain was gone. He jumped up and put weight on his ankle right away, which brought back a sharp thread of pain, but not as bad as before.

"You have to go easy, until it really heals," says Aiden. "If I took all the pain away, you'd hurt yourself worse. Can you get around on it now?"

"Yes, thank you very much, Aiden."

Aiden ruffled Stiles's hair, rubbing hard enough that it almost hurt. "Now get out of here before you break a bone."

"Okay!" Stiles half-stumbled as he ran off, but he didn't leave the big hall. He went under Master Deucalion's big, heavy wooden platform. It had sets of wide steps on each side and an open place underneath in front. From there it was easy to see everything that happened out on the floor.

A girl slave named Romeo, older than Stiles and new to Master Deucalion's house, was already sitting there. She wore her long braids pinned in a circle around the top of her head. Stiles scrambled in and sat cross-legged beside her. Romeo was allowed to be there, with a bucket and rag, but Stiles was hanging out with her against the rules. He was not supposed to ever under any circumstances be the one cleaning up blood from the werewolf play-fights. His jobs when he was nine years old included dusting baseboards, and running all around the compound to retrieve lost or forgotten items. Most of the rooms in Master Deucalion's buildings had walls that were stone all the way down, so there weren't many baseboards to do, but even so that job was intensely boring and seemed to go on forever. Stiles preferred running errands.

Romeo looked at Stiles as if she were afraid of him. "Werewolves don't do that for humans."

"Do what for humans?"

"Take away their pain!"

"It feels good. Do you have some pain that you need a werewolf to take away?"

Romeo shivered and hugged herself. "If I did, I wouldn't want them to."

Aiden peered under the platform. "Stiles." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a bunch of other young werewolves. "Is your foot okay to run and get us a six pack of the Coke that comes in bottles? Cold, if there's any in the big fridge."

"I'm good, the foot's good, I can go." Stiles scrambled out, and stumbled when he took off leaning too far forward. "Be right back!"

Aiden called after him, "Don't hurt yourself."

Stiles ran, skipping to save his sore ankle, down a narrow, echoing stone corridor. He skimmed the stone wall with the fingers of his right hand, grabbed the corner leading to the wider corridor by the kitchen, swung hard around it, and his dad was right there.

"Whoa, whoa." Dad grabbed his sleeve at the elbow. "Are you limping?"

Stiles pawed at the air before his arms settled down. Dad loosened his grip but he didn't let go. "Where did you get these tears in your uniform?"

"Uh, Aiden, um, stepped on me."

Dad leaned over, lifted Stiles's ankle hem, and made a _tsk_ sound. "And where were you when this happened?"

"Under Aiden."

"Where was _Aiden_?"

Stiles tilted his head and shrugged a shoulder in the direction of the big hall.

Dad reminded Stiles that he had warned him, which Stiles remembered perfectly well on his own. "This was just an accident," he told his dad.

"Of course it was an accident! I told you it could be prevented if you didn't go in there. No Stiles in the main hall means no bruised and banged up ankle, or worse."

"Okay, Dad, gotta go now."

Stiles took two running steps before Dad yanked him to a stop by the shoulder. "Don't run."

"Dad, I have to run! Aiden said _run_ and get some Coke in bottles."

His father released his grip and Stiles started down the corridor again. Dad shouted after him, "Run _carefully_."

There were some gaps between the stone walls and the high ceiling. The walls were thick enough that Stiles could crouch in one of those openings, but he couldn't get up there by himself. He could sometimes get his errands done extra fast if he ran—or crashed—into Kali and her pups. Then, if they had time, one of Kali's sons would leap over the wall at a gap, and wait on the floor on the other side. Kali or her other pup would give Stiles a boost. He would scramble and claw his way up, crouch at the top, peer over to make sure the other pup was there waiting, and let himself fall into his arms. Kali was usually in full wolf shape, massive and shiny black, with small, glittering yellow eyes. Her two sons were nearly full grown, and they went everywhere with her. Mohan, the younger one, was hardly ever fully human-shaped, but Tavish, the oldest, went human-shaped pretty often. Tavish smiled easily, and he always seemed happy, or at least amused, to see Stiles.

Stiles got the Coke and was carrying it as fast as he could, the bottles clinking precariously in their thin box, when he ran into a solid wall of werewolves. Tavish, in human form, caught the bottles before they could hit the floor. Stiles was ready to keep on running, because he thought that it wouldn't work to ask them for a shortcut while he was carrying glass.

Tavish said, "Hey, you're limping."

"Oh, it's not bad. I fell under Aiden. I have to bring him this Coke."

"I'll put it in the next corridor for you. Mohan can boost you up."

"Oh—thank you." Stiles handed over the box and Tavish leapt easily away with it. He was up the wall and gone through a hole in two blinks.

Mohan was already in wolf shape. Stiles straddled his neck. Mohan stood as tall as he could with his forepaws against the wall; Stiles supported himself with his hands on Mohan's head, and slowly stood on his slippery shoulders. Suddenly Tavish was back in the gap, reaching down. Stiles stretched up; his legs dangled and he tried to catch the wall with his toes, then Tavish hauled him up by both arms. Tavish slid back down the far side of the wall, to let Stiles have the tiny space in the gap to catch his balance. There was just room on the rough stone for Stiles to crouch on the balls of his feet.

"Okay, drop," said Tavish, and Stiles took a short and scary fall into his arms. Tavish leaned forward to let him down easy on his good foot. The bottles of Coke were already there, set on the floor for Stiles. He thanked Tavish, and yelled back his thanks to Mohan, in the other corridor. Stiles loved doing errands.

********

Now, Stiles is twelve and half. It's just after time to wake up, when he's barely had time to get dressed. One of the other slaves tells him he's supposed to join his dad before breakfast and go to Master Duke in the main hall. Stiles runs through the corridors and skids to a halt in front of his father, who catches him before he flails too much and tumbles forward. He looks Stiles over before they go in, and tries to smooth a wild lock of hair. "I kind of hope he's not promoting you."

The hall is empty except for the master. He's not on his platform; he's in one of the tall, heavy wooden chairs he has in every room so that nobody's ever seated higher than he is. He motions Stiles and Dad over to stand in front of him. Dad stands straight and bows his head respectfully. Stiles copies him for a moment. Then, though he keeps his hands clasped in front and stands relaxed and straight, he keeps looking up at the master, who gives him a warm look in return and then addresses his father.

"Shannon. Right away I'm going to say your son is sold."

Stiles looks quickly to Dad to get his reaction. At first there doesn't seem to be one. Then Dad slightly lowers his shoulders and lifts his chin. He seems to be relaxed, maybe relieved.

Stiles looks to Master Deucalion and begins, "But I'm—"

Master Duke holds up a hand, and Stiles remembers not to speak out of turn. Master Duke says, "I know you're not thirteen yet."

People don't buy slaves who are under thirteen years old, because they are trying to avoid getting a slave who is part werewolf and will turn out to be a shapeshifter—an embarrassment and difficulty for the household. There are some late shifters, but by age thirteen most born werewolves have shapeshifted.

Master Duke explains that a lady werewolf was visiting, saw Stiles in the yard, and wanted to buy him, even though he's so young. Stiles has never met the lady, and it turns out that he isn't even moving to her house. She's building a big commercial kitchen, and she wants to have Stiles professionally trained to work there. Stiles has been enrolled in a kitchen school. The session starts in three days.

This news isn't making it easy on Stiles to mimic his father and stand still.

"Stiles, I've been entirely pleased with your service. We will miss you."

"Thank you, Master. I'll miss you, too, Master." Stiles rubs his nose, then fidgets his fingers together behind his back, and he's going to start dancing in place if he isn't released soon.

"Shannon," Master Deucalion says to Stiles's father, "I count myself fortunate to have you here. I wouldn't want you to have any reason to run away or to have a conflict with me because of your son. I spoke with the person managing the training program, and as long as you share a cot, they'll let you board with them for a week and get Stiles settled. You'll do whatever they ask of you during that week, to pay for your board."

Dad's still standing perfectly straight with his hands folded, but his chin goes up another notch, and his shoulders lower even more. "Thank you, Master."

Deucalion gives Dad a nod and Stiles an encouraging smile, and dismisses them the moment before Stiles would have started fidgeting too badly.

Right outside in the corridor, Dad makes Stiles wait with him, touching him on the shoulder while the wooden door with its metal bands closes and latches with a clunk. Then Dad grabs Stiles and hugs him tight for a long time.

********

Stiles has a scar on the inside of his right arm. It's from falling, one of the times when he climbed an outer wall of Master Duke's compound, and from there climbed into a tree on the other side. He had to grab a branch to save himself from a fall back onto the wall or to the ground, and his arm got snagged. He made a mental note then that if he was going to fall in the future, he should probably do it _inside_ the wall, so a werewolf would be likely to be hanging around and catch him before he hit the ground.

The good thing was that he did get to feel some cool, fresh leaves between his fingers, and brush them against his cheeks, before he climbed too high.

His dad yelled at him when he found out what had happened. Then Dad asked him how he even climbed that wall in the first place, without a werewolf boosting him up. That part was easy; there were little flower-planting alcoves in the wall that were never used. Stiles used those alcoves as footholds.

On his last afternoon at home, Stiles asks to climb the tree one more time. Dad says that Stiles is never supposed to be climbing that tree at all, so what's this _one more time_ business, but he gives in. "I'll stand under it on our side of the wall and wait for you, if you want to do it 'one more time'."

Stiles refills the planting alcoves with soil whenever he uses them. You can't even tell the toe-holds are there. He digs out enough dirt with his toes to get traction as he climbs. He gets up into the tree, and looks so far across the dusty countryside in the bright afternoon light that he can see a line of trees as one long, dark, jagged shape faded into milky blue. He rubs cool leaves against his cheek. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting up there, until Dad speaks. "Stiles. Time to come down."

Stiles wiggles down from the tree and shimmies down the wall, and his dad hugs him like goodbye even though they're going to spend the week at the new place together. Stiles shoves some handfuls of dirt into the alcoves and walks out of Master Duke's yard forever.

********

At kitchen training, Dad and Stiles snuggle up in a cot meant for one. The edge of the cot bites into Stiles’s butt.

"You'll have to be loyal to your new mistress, but you should love Master Deucalion, too. You should know... there are people who don't like Master Duke. You'll find that out when you hear people talking about him outside of his own house. There may come a time when you have to keep secrets about him, and if it won't mean harm to your new owner, you should do it. You'll know if it comes to that."

"I need to keep him a secret?"

"Not now. And hopefully you never will. But there's trouble coming. I don't know who his friends will be after it's over. You have to be one of his friends, as far as you can, and also be loyal to your new people. Understand?"

Stiles furrows his brow. "Someone wants to hurt him?"

"Yes. I think so. But don't worry about it now."

So Stiles doesn't worry about it. He's just glad to have his dad with him.

Dad tells Stiles that he'll call and write, and he'll send self-addressed envelopes so Stiles can write back. Master Deucalion also sent along some postage stamps and stationery for Stiles to use. Dad's sure that Master Deucalion will arrange it sometime that Dad can visit Stiles.

At the end of the first week, after Dad leaves, Stiles has trouble sleeping because his problems of each day have nowhere to go. He doesn't have his dad to talk to.

Master Deucalion obviously understood Stiles's weak points as well as his strengths. The kitchen program is for slaves who aren't expected to be in the nicer parts of a house, or even in the front part of a restaurant. Stiles still has all of his behavior troubles from home, despite his intention to grow up as soon as he stepped through the front gate. He fidgets, flails, talks out loud when he shouldn't, and burns himself. He's not the only one, though. Everyone there gets occasional burns. It's an occupational hazard. Stiles's other problems seem to be chalked up to his age, as the training program doesn't usually take anyone under fourteen, and Stiles is only going on thirteen. And, thankfully, most of the equipment is unbreakable.

Stiles gets yelled at a lot when he zones out or gets underfoot. The yelling bothers him at first, until he realizes that there's a lot of yelling in general at kitchen training, and It's not always directed angrily at him. People yell at each other, right over his head. Lots of the trainees swear aloud.

Stiles has an aptitude for kitchen work already. He's done hours of boring cold salad preparation, and lots of washing the pots and pans in one or another of Master Duke's kitchens. Stiles is also one of the better students in the written portion of the kitchen course. He helps some of the other students with their reading and writing.

It doesn't help his fidgeting and babbling that he's nervous because he doesn't _belong_ to anyone here. Stiles never sees the lady werewolf who owns him, and he never gets marked. It's not like at Duke's, where Stiles knew he smelled like a Deucalion slave, all of the time. Some slaves who are in the training program come in only during the days, and don't sleep in the dorms. They get marked at home by their masters every morning. Other slaves stay in the dorms every night, like Stiles. They all go outside for sun and fresh air in the courtyard. The unmarked slaves take turns. Without talking about it or making a plan, they try to go when there will be only one or two of them, surrounded by slaves who get marked every day.

Nobody scent-marks the boundaries of the school. The tiny cement courtyard is enclosed by brick walls on three sides, and a mountain ash latticework crosses the open side. There's a pot of plants called "lamb's ears", and they're as fuzzy and fun to pet as their name suggests.

The dorm common area has a landline phone available for the slaves to use, with supervision, during recreation. Stiles gets a phone call from his dad once a week. He usually gets a letter once a week, too, and it's always on a different day from the phone call. He writes back on the stationery Master Duke gave him. And one time, he does get a couple of hours' visit from his dad! The other slaves all know Shannon from Stiles's first week there, and Stiles is proud of how happy they are to see him.

"Be good," Dad says when he tousles Stiles's hair for goodbye at the end of the two and half hours.

Stiles tries to be good. He mouths off a lot, but he doesn't mean to. One day, he sets his heel too far underneath a sink, misses the mat that should have prevented him from slipping on the wet floor, and goes down backwards. He takes a moment to get his bearings and pops back up, right when the supervisor is coming by, carrying a heavy pot full of something. Stiles’s head clangs into the bottom of the pot. "Ow ow ow." Stiles sits back down.

"Hey, Stilinski. Your head okay?"

Stiles scowls, holding the top of his poor head. "Yes."

"Next time you fall, stay down until I've stepped over you."

"You're the supervisor. You're supposed to supervise me. You should have _supervised_ me on the floor and gone around! Bad supervisor."

The supervisor only chuckles and walks on with his heavy pot, but another slave helps Stiles up and says, "Where I come from, I saw a man killed for mouthing off like that."

Stiles isn't worried. He's never going where that slave came from. He's never seen a werewolf kill anybody, and he expects he never will. Besides, it's not that he tries to mouth off—he just speaks before he can stop himself. Sometimes, at home, he'd stop himself from mouthing off because his dad would remind him before the words got all the way out. It's hard remembering everything by himself. Still, he feels it's wise to go and apologize to the supervisor. By the time Stiles gets a chance, later that afternoon, he has to remind the supervisor what he's apologizing for.

********

The head trainer wakes Stiles up at two in the morning with news. "I wanted to tell you what I've heard, before the morning gossip begins."

"Tell me what?"

"I'm sorry, Stiles. It's not good news. Something terrible has happened at Deucalion's house."

He tells Stiles that a family of free humans violently took over Duke's house. They used an old armored police vehicle as a battering ram. Two slaves were killed right away, when the wall was broken down. Those were slaves Stiles knew, and they're gone. Where is his father? Stiles sees Dad's face as vividly as if he were right there in front of him. What has happened to him? Is he still in the house? Where is Master Deucalion? Wherever Master Duke is, that's where Dad will be.

"Is my dad okay? Are the other slaves okay? Is Master Deucalion alive?" But the head trainer doesn't know.

The slave gossip that begins later that morning mostly concerns humans. One student, then another, has heard that this or that slave was okay. Names Stiles knows. But Stiles doesn't hear about his dad.

He also wants news of the werewolves. There used to always be so many around Deucalion's compound. Who was there last night, and who made it out? Everybody seems sure that Deucalion's not in his house anymore—that the humans who attacked it took over and moved in. Nobody seems to know whether Deucalion was killed, or only thrown out. If he wasn't killed, and his enemies want him dead, Duke is in danger from bounty hunters, and so is anyone who's hiding with him.

While washing dishes, two slaves taller than Stiles are talking about it over his head. "Deucalion has enough people who could be his enemies. I'm surprised something like this didn't happen sooner."

"Why?" asks Stiles.

"Well—because of your old master's reputation," the first slave answers, as if there's something Stiles is supposed to understand, something else she would add out loud if he hadn't come from Deucalion's house in the first place.

"Plus, the whole household was an undisciplined mess," says the other slave.

Stiles flashes out, "That's not true!"

"All I'm saying is, if they'd been better disciplined, maybe his people could have saved his house, or saved him."

"But he's not dead, right? You haven't _heard_ that he's dead. Hasn't anybody heard from him?"

As soon as the lights go out for bedtime, Stiles's stomach knots up tight, and only starts to unwind when the sun comes up and there's work to do.

Four days after the attack on Master Duke's house, Stiles meets, for the first time, the person who owns him. She's an old lady, white-haired, with nice eyes. Even though she's a werewolf, her health is failing, and she's not going to open the kitchen she planned on, after all. She holds Stiles's chin and looks at his eyes, turns his face one way and then the other.

"He looks good," she says to Stiles's head instructor. She finds out how he's getting along in class, then says, "I'll pay to finish his training here. Once he's got a certificate from your school, I think we can find him a nice place."

Stiles still doesn't know what's happened to Dad or to Master Duke, and now he doesn't know what's going to happen to him, either.

Stiles is sitting by himself in the common area during recreation time that afternoon, wondering constantly where his dad is and worrying about being masterless himself, when a slave from the pastry class brings a practice batch of Danishes for everyone to share. Stiles's appetite has suffered since the attack on Deucalion's, but he tries nibbling one with cream cheese. There was a game of Chinese checkers going on in the middle of the floor, but once the Danishes arrive, recreation time is just eating and gossiping.

A slave named Caleb, who goes home every night, says that his master took him out to a bar where there were some hunters talking about the attack on Master Duke's. "That Raeken kid was there, bragging about the hunt he made that night at Duke's. I guess the people who took over the house let the hunters know there'd be wolves they could take unawares. Raeken and some others waited outside when they broke through the walls."

Stiles lays his Danish down and makes a fist.

Someone else speaks. "Theo Raeken's parents let him go on any kind of hunting trip he cooks up. One of these days he's going to kill the wrong wolf."

"To hear him tell it," says Caleb, "he already did. He says that the one he got that night is the wrong color."

"The wrong _color_?"

"He wanted a black one, an all black one. They offered him Kali's body. She's that really big wolf who was there all the time. Her head was taken off by an explosive and the Raeken kid said she was too mangled..."

Stiles whimpers.

"Shit. Sorry, Stiles, I forgot you probably knew her. I wouldn't have gone into such... detail, you know, if I remembered. Are you okay?"

Stiles feels as if all of his blood has drained to his stomach, but he nods. Caleb comes over and pats him on the shoulder. He goes on with his story. "Anyway. Her body was damaged too much."

"Oh, he wanted a _pelt_ ," says the other slave, in a disgusted tone.

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this here," says Caleb.

"I want to hear what happened," Stiles objects.

Caleb clears his throat and puts his hand back on Stiles's shoulder, keeping it there this time. "He didn't want a pelt for the wall. I guess he wants a life-size mount. The one he did end up getting was the wrong color, to hear him tell it. Too much gold fur."

Stiles speaks up with the first thought he has. "That's Mohan. He has a golden patch of fur between his ears, and blond in his mane and down the sides of his legs. Otherwise he's black. But not as black as his mom." By the time he's done talking, Stiles's voice has faded to a whisper. He curls the fingers of one hand near his heart, shrugs out of Caleb's comforting grip, and goes and hides under a sink. He thinks about Mohan, and about Kali's head, and wonders where Tavish went.

********


	2. With Miss Cora

********

That week there is no phone call from his dad. Stiles does everything mechanically. He looks at finished tasks and wonders how he did them.

When there's also no letter that week, Stiles is frantic. Each slave in the program is allowed a small bin to keep things in. Stiles has his father's old letters in his; he takes out a fistful of them and carries it with him everywhere, stuffing the letters in his apron pocket when he needs both hands.

"I bet your dad's still living there at the compound. The rules might have changed with the new owners," Caleb suggests, "and he just can't write or call right now."

Stiles knows what Caleb doesn't: that Dad would die for Master Deucalion, so he was in just as much danger during the attack as the master was. And Dad's not even a bodyguard. It's not fair.

Stiles is stumbling through his tasks and not sleeping, alternately picking at and gulping his food during meals. Another week passes with no new letter.

Then there's a phone call during Stiles's depressing recreation time, and it's for him.

"He's really sorry for no call last week," says a girl's voice, one that Stiles recognizes. He can't remember her name, but she's a werewolf who was at Master Duke's with Aiden lots of times. "They're both alive. He can't call. He _will_ try to get you a letter."

Stiles cries so hard after the phone call that at first the other slaves think he got bad news. They tell the staff manager that Stiles is very sick and has to stay in bed for the rest of the day, which is just as well.

Stiles does get a letter, one day late for his thirteenth birthday. His dad doesn't say anything about what happened at Duke's, but uses "we" a lot, so it seems like Master Duke and Dad, wherever they are, must be together. Stiles reads it over and over, and sleeps with it at night.

It's only two weeks later that Stiles finishes the training. The supervisor says he did very well, and smiles at him. Now Stiles has professional kitchen training as part of his permanent paperwork. As soon as he's dismissed, he sits on his cot, chews his nails and stares into space. He's not planned for any more. He's a loose end. But the head instructor says he's sure that Stiles will sell quickly.

Stiles knows he won't be able to take the box for his personal things with him to the sale, so he re-reads all of his letters, and picks three long ones to take with him on the ride. He holds the letters pressed to his lips and tries to repeat them from memory, then looks at them without reading the words, just seeing his dad's handwriting. Then he reads them over again. Stiles prays his dad will find out where he gets sold to, so maybe he can get new letters wherever he ends up.

********

The sale is in a long, breezy, white warehouse with huge overhead doors open at both ends. The ceiling is so high that Stiles makes himself dizzy blinking up at the white-painted, heavy-duty wire light fixtures. He's wearing a short tunic with short sleeves and no pockets. The vendor lets him keep his letters for a little while, but when he fidgets too much and wrings the letters in his hands, she takes them away from him.

People come by and look at Stiles and the other slaves for sale, check them for healthy skin and eyes and so on, and ask them questions about the kind of work they know, or where they lived before. Only a few stop and take Stiles by the wrist to look in detail at his hands and arms, or ask him to turn around, or lift his tunic. Some people ask the vendor how old Stiles is, and then ask Stiles himself, as if they don't believe the vendor; then they remark that he looks young. Other people say to one another that he can't be thirteen, but they move on without asking Stiles or the vendor his age.

"My papers have proof of my age," he whispers to the vendor after yet another person dismisses him based on his small size.

"Don't worry about it. They're only saying that because they're not serious about buying you." She has to keep reminding him not to fidget. "At least stand still when people are looking directly at you!"

Suddenly his father is standing right in front of him, half-smiling at him.

Stiles is so startled to see his dad that he stumbles and almost clutches him, then almost hugs him, and remembers just in time to fold his arms instead. He supposes they can't touch each other, but Dad acts as if he's thinking of buying Stiles, and in a moment he has his hands all over him. He holds Stiles's chin, and runs his fingers through his hair. He runs his thumb over every one of Stiles's little burn scars from kitchen training, which are mostly on his hands and lower arms, but he also somehow got one on his throat at some point.

Dad touches the scar Stiles has had for years, from tree climbing. He asks, pretending he really doesn't know, "Where did you get this one?"

Stiles makes the story as long as he can, and Dad asks all kinds of clarifying questions, even silly ones. The whole time, he presses a hand to that spot, sometimes lightly rubbing with his thumb. After a pause, he murmurs, "He's completely blind."

The meaning of the words sinks in, and Stiles's heart aches. He wants to ask how badly Deucalion was hurt besides his eyes, but there's no easy way to bring it up. Dad seems to be having a similar problem finding words. Suddenly his expression changes; he looks teasing. "Haven't decided yet whether to even keep him."

Stiles sighs. If his dad will tease about him, Duke can't be too badly damaged or in too much pain, even though his eyes are injured.

Dad gives him a last pat on the shoulder and leaves to go slowly all around the sale, as if looking at everyone who is available.

At lunchtime the vendor lets Stiles kneel down for ten minutes and have some granola and water. A group of giggling girls, human and werewolf, makes its way through the crowd. They've been stopping and considering many of the boys and girls for sale. One of them must be the only one who's really thinking of buying, because the others surround her and seem to give their opinions, but she decides when to move on. They stop in front of Stiles, smiling and nudging each other, and he scrambles to stand up, awkwardly holding a fistful of granola.

"Oh, Cora," says one of the girls, "he's eating his lunch. You have to let him finish."

"No, Miss, I—I'm sorry."

The werewolf girl called Cora makes an encouraging gesture in the direction of Stiles's fistful of cereal. Her fingernails are painted pink.

Stiles glances to the vendor, and she gives him a slight nod. So Stiles has to eat now. Even in a building full of people, the crunching sounds loud. Then Stiles slurps some water. Cora stands watching him with her fingers laced together, her friends watching her on either side. The vendor takes the water bottle back from Stiles. Stiles tries to remember what to do with himself. He picks a spot on the floor off to one side and concentrates on looking at it, hoping it will seem as though he's dropping his gaze respectfully, but he keeps sneaking glances at Cora and her friends. Cora is wearing a dark purple double-breasted blazer, and has long, shiny hair.

"What's your name?" Cora asks him.

Stiles isn't sure whether he should openly look at her or keep his eyes down. His eyes dart around randomly. He stammers over his own name, and finally replies correctly. "Stiles Stilinski."

Cora asks the vendor, "Can you make him take off his clothes?"

Stiles wriggles out of the tunic. He feels like he's all arms and legs. He turns around so Cora can see everything. Cora takes hold of his hand; her own hand is smooth and small. She inspects the spatter burn scars that travel up his lower arms to just above his elbows. She looks at his face, and he turns his gaze away until she says, "Let me see your eye color.” She waits for Stiles to look openly at her face.

"I like this one," she says suddenly. She tells Stiles, "You may get dressed." Then her voice grows shy, and she adds, to the vendor, "I mean, you can tell him to get dressed."

One of her girlfriends says, "Oh, but Cora, he has a burn scar on his neck! Your father won't want you to buy one that looks like a kitchen boy."

Stiles swallows an offended noise in his throat. He's not a kitchen boy, he's a trained cook. Cora leans in and looks hard at that scar on his throat, runs her thumb over it, and looks again at the small scars on his arms. "Our gate boys wear long sleeves and jackets, anyway. I can have our girl iron his collar to fold a little higher, and you won't even see that neck scar."

Cora's friend laughs. "Allison isn't going to be happy that you bought a slave for yourself."

"She will _like_ him," returns Cora. "If she has a problem with my family keeping slaves, she hasn't said anything about it to me."

"The Argents are total activists."

"Well, as long as Allison doesn't activate at me, she can do whatever she likes. I'm going to show him off to her; I know she'll appreciate him. Besides, I want him to open the gate at the camp for me."

"You should think it over," one of her friends says wisely. "This is an important purchase. Let's go get something to eat and come back."

"I'm certain I want him," Cora tells the vendor. "Can I make a deposit?"

The vendor accepts a deposit, and Stiles surprises himself by letting out a sigh of relief.

"Let's go. I want gyros."

Stiles has lost track of his father, even though he tried to watch where he went. He must be in the crowd of people somewhere; Dad won't leave until he knows who's bought Stiles. After the girls go to get their gyros, Dad comes weaving back through the buyers, right up to Stiles again, and shows that he's been watching the whole time: "Is that little girl going to take you? I like her."

"Me, too," answers Stiles. "She put down a deposit."

The vendor hears some of what they're saying. "Sir, this boy is sold. She left a deposit, but if you want to wait for her to come back—"

"Thank you, no." Dad gives the vendor a little bow of his head. He looks at Stiles again. Stiles tries to read what he's saying with his eyes.

Cora and her friends come back. She and the vendor go through all the necessary paperwork, Cora looking very grave, her girlfriends smiling behind their hands.

Dad backs off and stands in Stiles's line of sight. He makes a big show of writing something on a piece of paper and putting it in his pocket. Stiles knows it must have Cora's name on it. Stiles _might_ get a letter from Dad, if the new place turns out to be the kind of house where they allow mail.

The vendor says, to Stiles's surprise, "He's attached to these letters."

"I'll keep them for him," says Cora.

Cora takes Stiles home immediately, while her girlfriends go on with their outing together.

"Good luck with him Cora, I hope he's as nice as he looks," they say.

"Hope your father is happy with him," one of them adds.

Cora looks at Stiles and smiles, and Stiles almost smiles back before he catches himself being too familiar. He looks at the folded letters in his clasped hands instead.

She makes Stiles ride in the back seat with her. They drive out of town, into the hills where the houses are large and have a lot of property spread out around them. Cora's two-story house is white with gold trim; big and sprawling, it looks as if it's relaxing across the landscape. There are trees that look like they've been pruned to match each other; hedges, neatly trimmed; a gravel drive that makes a long curve from the road to the house; and there's a fence around the whole place, twice. One fence by the road, and one further up.

A small, sturdy boy with stiff upstanding black hair opens the first gate. "This will be your job," Cora tells Stiles, "but you're not dressed for work yet." The driver moves on beyond the house without them. Cora, Stiles, and the other boy walk up to the next fence, and the boy opens that gate, too.

He gives Stiles a friendly glance and goes away. Miss Cora takes Stiles along to her bedroom upstairs. She has a very full and fancy bedroom, with everything in shades of off-white. The carpet is fine and thick; Stiles's bare feet sink in deeply, and he lifts one to see if he's leaving dusty footprints. The bed has two tall posts at its head, a canopy, and a pillowy quilt.

The slaves at this house are not given their own boxes to keep things in. Cora puts Stiles's letters in a drawer in her vanity. "You may ask me when you want to see them." Then she gets out of her clothes and lays them out carefully on her bed. "You may put that sale tunic on the floor. I'll get you an outfit close to your size for now, that you can wear until you're measured."

Cora leads Stiles into her own bathroom. "Get into the bathtub, Stiles," she says importantly. "On your knees, please." She steps into the tub after him and adds, "Put your head down."

Cora does a thorough job of peeing on Stiles, rinses her own feet, and tells him, as she steps out of the tub, that he may now wash himself off. "I'm not going to stay in and shower with you this time. I don't want to get my hair wet."

Stiles is extremely sparing of the soap. He's not taking chances when it comes to any strange wolves knowing he's taken. When he comes back out into the bedroom, Cora asks, "Did I do all right? Do you feel marked?"

"Yes, Miss."

He can see Cora smiling at herself in her mirror.

A maid knocks at the door, with clothes close to Stiles's size. Miss Cora asks her, "Take Stiles down to the kitchen with you, and get him something to eat."

Stiles gets into his new outfit, and has to turn up the pant legs so he doesn't shuffle along with his heels on his cuffs. Downstairs, the floors are stone tile. The maid drops him off at the kitchen. "One of the cook's assistants will take care of you."

Stiles kneels on the cool kitchen floor and gratefully devours a big cold-cut sandwich.

He asks the cook's assistant, "Can you tell me—everyone but me seems to know—why does a family of werewolves have ash fences they can't open?"

"The lady of the house is human. Everyone else is werewolves. But every family around here has ash gates and fences, whether the family is human or not. This whole area is full of feral werewolves. You have to be careful."

Stiles grabs a drink from the faucet with his hands, then begins to help wash some dishes. Before the sinkful is done, Cora collects him again and keeps him close to her, in a sitting room at the front of the house. Stiles is allowed to kneel instead of stand, which makes it easier when it comes to his fidgeting. Cora is on the phone with her girlfriend Allison. They're talking about Miss Cora's father. "He doesn't know yet," she confides to Allison. "I don't want him stumbling across Stiles. I wonder how soon he'll be home—if I'd have time to mark Stiles over again, and blow-dry his hair into some kind of shape. Oh—I hear Father." She leans and cranes to look over the back of the sofa, beyond the white lace curtains that show the front walk through their open pattern.

Stiles hears the front door open and close, and expects Cora's father to come right into the front room, but he doesn't. Cora expects it, too, because she says a hasty good-bye to Allison, puts her phone away and fusses over her own appearance, as well as Stiles's. "We need to get you clothes that really fit." Cora tries to smooth his hair for him, but he knows from all the times his dad tried that it's a lost cause. She makes certain she has all of Stiles's papers in order, then sits with her hands crossed in her lap. Minutes pass and the master of the house does not appear. Finally, a boy pokes his head in at the archway to the sitting room and clears his throat. "Miss, your father asks for you in the den."

When Cora's father tells her she may come in, he's sitting behind a desk, writing something by hand. He lifts his chin and draws a long breath through his nose, then looks sharply at Cora. "You have a personal slave, I see."

"He's a gate boy." Cora's voice wavers slightly, then steadies. "I mean, he's _my_ gate boy. I need one."

Miss Cora's father asks to see what she paid for Stiles, and she shows him. He arches an eyebrow at his daughter. "For a _gate boy?_ "

"He's a fully trained cook." Miss Cora shows him Stiles's kitchen certificate.

"You're only going to take him to visit your friends."

Cora lifts her chin. "Of course, you are welcome to use him as a cook, anytime. I wanted a gate boy, and I like this one. I'm fifteen in two months. Stiles can be my present to myself."

Cora's father lets out a quiet huff. He has Stiles take off all of his clothes, takes hold of his hand and looks at the fingers, and makes a lot of tsking sounds about the state of Stiles's nails. Stiles has chewed his nails into a ragged mess, which wasn't a problem at kitchen training, where nobody looked at his hands. "He’s in good condition, except for his nails. You're starting out with a healthy slave, keep him that way."

"Yes, Father."

The master dismisses them, and a relieved Miss Cora goes up to her bedroom, texting on her phone as she goes. She has Stiles join the other slave boys for supper. Then they're supposed to care for their uniforms before bedtime. The gate boys wear shirt sleeves and an apron when working in the kitchen or other parts of the house. When they go out, the apron comes off and a jacket goes on. Stiles will be measured for his jacket and trousers tomorrow.

The boys sleep in a first-floor hallway, where they're available at any time to open the gate nearest the house. The boy who let Cora and Stiles in at the gate that afternoon introduces himself as Akio and shows Stiles around. "This closet is where the sleeping bags are stored during the day. The bathroom right here off the hallway is for us. This hall is pretty drafty, so we switch off who has to lie in the draft, and block the rest of us from it. You're new, so you can take that spot tonight, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind." Stiles will be glad to get into his sleeping bag and be done with his first day in the new place.

When all four of the household's gate boys are settled for the night, Akio tucks the top edge of his sleeping bag out of the way of his chin so he can speak clearly over it. "Is Miss Cora making you go with her to the hunting camp?"

"What hunting camp?"

"The one where her girlfriend, Allison, lives. Her girlfriend is Allison Argent, the _hunter_. Cora is always calling up there and asking Allison if her dad is around and if it's okay to come over yet. You'd think Miss Cora wouldn't go anywhere near there. You know, Kate Argent kidnapped one of the Hale pack. And the Hales killed Kate."

Stiles knows that. Everybody has heard that story. Derek Hale was only a teenager, and Kate Argent stole him from his pack and tortured him. Peter Hale, Derek's uncle, found Derek and killed Kate. Tore her throat right out. Stiles asks reasonably, "Why would Miss Cora want to go to the camp, if the Argents are so dangerous? Are all of the Argents werewolf-kidnappers? Nobody ever said so."

"Well, Kate was the crazy one, I guess. But they’re a whole family of hunters. So they must all kill werewolves. Anyway, I was just wondering if you were going to have to go there."

Stiles yawns. "I suppose I'll go wherever Miss Cora goes."

The next day, Stiles gets measured for his uniform, then puts on the same clothes as the day before, to be ready to go out. Miss Cora is bringing Akio along. "We're going to make several calls today, so Stiles can learn."

The first thing Stiles has to learn is to close the gate behind people without being rude. Apparently it is very rude to close the gate as soon as the young mistress has passed through it. You must give a little margin, then close the gate without undue haste or noise. Never hurry, always go slowly and decorously, even if you know there are feral werewolves in the area. Give a moment after your lady or gentleman passes through the gate before gently closing it and checking the latch, then locking it if it's that kind of gate. Your mistress will tell you whether to wait by the gate or to follow her through it—there may be more gates. She will tell you where to stand while she is visiting.

That morning, Stiles has to stand on the porch while Miss Cora visits indoors.

Akio asks, "Did you never learn how to stand still?"

"Sorry? I'm standing still, aren't I?"

"You're way over there. You started out beside me."

Stiles looks about himself and sees that he has indeed drifted halfway down the porch.

Akio tries to teach Stiles how to stand. "Shift your weight from one foot to the other, but do it really slowly, so nobody can even see it." That keeps Stiles occupied for a while, but standing still is going to be a trial for him, he can tell. He keeps forgetting that standing still involves his entire body, and looks over his shoulder at interesting things behind him, past the porch railing. Akio whispers harshly, "Stilinski, face forward." He continues in a low voice, "This side of the yard is nice, too. I saw a chipmunk on the gravel path a minute ago. Watch for him."

Stiles watches hard for the chipmunk, and though he does not see it, he hears it scurrying nearby, and hears it chipping, so he's standing neatly when Cora's friend comes outside with her to see the new gate boy.

"He's sweet-looking," the friend says. She takes a quick, delicate sniff. "Did you have him wash with soap after? You should have him wash himself first, then after you've marked him, have him rinse off with only water. He'll retain more scent."

"I forgot," Cora admits. "I'll do it that way next time."

That evening, Stiles is exhausted from practicing standing still. He descends aggressively on his supper.

Miss Cora marks him again. After so long at kitchen training, feeling as if he belonged to no one, being marked makes Stiles feel important and mostly safe. But only _mostly_ safe, since his main task is going to be standing between feral werewolves and the places they might want to get inside. That night, after he gets into his sleeping bag, he hears howling.

It starts suddenly, with a long, sad cry. It seems distant at first, but it's hard to tell with so many hills around. After the solo cry, three wolves, maybe more, sing a deep, moaning song. Occasionally one of them mixes in some rough-edged yips. The longer they sing, the louder they get, and the more growling and barking sounds are mixed in, making them seem angry.

Master Duke's friends used to howl, echoing in the main hall, and sometimes a feral wolf would answer them from out on the plains. But there were no ash fences, because nobody at Master Duke's compound was afraid of any wolves.

The other boys don't seem worried. The howling sounds close, then closer. Then Stiles is nervous that the feral pack could be on the property.

The other gate boys tell him, "No, the sound carries and confuses your ears. They can't get in. Besides, they're farther away than they sound."

"What would they do if they did get in?" asks Stiles.

"They can't get in," one of the boys replies, "but if they could, who knows? They might dig up the garden. Or they might eat us. You never know. And they could get in a fight with the family, and maybe, you know, maybe attack one of the young misses. You know, _attack_ one of them."

"You mean rape," says Stiles.

"Well... yeah. But go to sleep and don't worry about it. They can't get in."

Stiles is quiet for some time, but the howling continues and he thinks it sounds closer, he's sure it sounds closer. He turns onto his other side so he's facing Akio and asks, "Would they rape a human? One of us?"

"I guess, if they wanted to, and if they got past the fence. But they won't get in. You can go to sleep."

Stiles only shadows Akio for the one day, because it's a simple job to learn. After that, he has no help with standing still, unless one of the other girls who's out visiting has also brought her gate slave along. Then that boy might hiss, "Stilinski! The young ladies are in the front entryway." And Stiles scurries back into place just in time.

On rare occasions, the gate slaves are brought indoors, where Cora often has Stiles kneel, because she knows that it's easier for him, even if the other boys and girls are standing.

When he's alone on a porch, he drifts. Miss Cora disapproves when she has to call him back into position. "What am I going to do with you?"

One evening, Cora keeps Stiles with her in her bedroom after she marks him, and makes him kneel by the bed while she sits with her computer tablet. She has a full shopping bag next to her on the bedding. "I got an idea off of the Internet for how to teach you to stand still."

"It's not going to work," Stiles says, and then crushes his curled fingers against his lips, because that slipped out without his meaning to say it, and made him an even worse slave than he was when all he was doing was moving around on porches.

"Stiles," Cora says sternly, "you don't know that. We'll try the idea."

"Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss."

"Here's an apron, some yarn, a scissors, and a wooden dowel. The apron is to hold the supplies. You're going to learn to finger knit, and you'll work on it while we're making visits."

"I'm not supposed to wear an apron when I'm going with you," says Stiles.

"Hush. You're my boy, I make the rules. You're going to finger knit a blanket for me. That is, you're going to finger knit the parts. I'll sew it together myself when the pieces are done."

Stiles feels comfortable in an apron. He used one at kitchen training, and he uses one here if he's helping in the potting shed or the kitchen. He's gotten used to being able to hide his fidgeting hands in the front pocket, or by gripping the hem, or by stretching the front panel of the apron over his knuckles.

Cora puts her tablet on the floor so that Stiles can look at diagrams of finger knitting. It looks like it should be easy, especially with his busy fingers, but it's not. He's afraid after his first try that he's never going to learn. His first rows are wobbly and uneven, but they're all uneven in the same way, with the same hole in the row too big every time, which is frustrating. Cora looks at the instructions and tries to teach Stiles how to tighten the loops as he goes. Then she talks to Allison on the phone, while Stiles works, kneeling in the deep carpeting. Periodically he holds his slow-growing row up for her to see, and she nods if it's good, or shakes her head if he should re-do it.

Stiles isn't sure what to do when Miss Cora goes down to supper and he's supposed to go eat with the other boys. He wants to see his letters, the ones Cora saved for him in her desk. She said he could ask any time. Cora sees him hesitate and look at the desk, which is more rude of him than just asking would have been. "Do you want your letters?"

Stiles nods.

"Say, 'Please, Miss, I'd like to have my letters.'"

Stiles stammers over repeating the request back to her. Even though he stutters, Cora gives him a serious, approving nod, and gives him the letters. He didn't realize how much he misses his father, or how much it would feel like hugging him, even to only hold the letters. "May I—could I—put them in my apron pocket? I mean, may I _keep_ them in my apron pocket?"

"Yes, you may, as long as you only read them during free time."

"Thank you, Miss Cora."

Miss Cora gives him a little smile.

Stiles brings his finger knitting with him when he goes on calls with Miss Cora. She picks the colors of yarn and tells him when he's done with a chain. He has to remember to keep his back straight while he knits, because he has a tendency to hunch over his work, even when he's standing. When his knitting gets long, he throws it over his shoulder, and uses a dowel to hold his stitches when he has to open a gate.

For his tasks when he's at home and Cora doesn't need him, Stiles has to help clean the front entryway and the slave boys' sleeping hall. Sometimes he has to help clean and weed outside. He enjoys that, although it makes him nervous, worrying about misidentifying a plant, but a gardener's boy keeps a pretty close eye on him.

Stiles finds out that slaves are allowed to receive mail at this house. He gets another letter to add to those in his apron pocket. Master Deucalion is never mentioned in it by name, and there's no return address. Stiles touches the signature: _Love, Dad_.

Later that same afternoon, Cora is leaving with Stiles, who has changed to go out; he has shined his shoes, and is wearing his apron. Her father sees them, holds up a hand to make her pause, and frowns. "Your mother says she's been hearing that your gate boy makes crafts on other people's porches."

"What a boring topic. People have nothing to talk about," says Cora.

"Is there any reason you can't hire or buy someone to knit for you, so your gate boy can at least look respectable?"

"He's learning, Daddy. He's new. Give him a little time to learn to stand still. Meanwhile, he's being twice as useful."

"Utility must be accompanied by looks, Cora. You could have gotten one who already knew how to stand still, and more economically, too."

"I want to train my own."

"Why hasn't he already learned? What kind of a place was he raised in, that he doesn't know how to stand?"

"Did you look at his history? I left a copy on your desk. He went straight from Deucalion's house to kitchen training."

Her father sighs, "Ah! Deucalion. That explains a lot. I suppose we should be relieved he's not climbing the porch pillars, let alone knitting." He looks sharply at Stiles. "Are you loyal to Deucalion?"

Stiles chews the inside of his lower lip for a half-second while he takes a breath through his nose. "I'm loyal to Miss Cora."

Fortunately, Cora's father does not say, _It was a yes or no question._

********


	3. Werewolves on a Hill

********

Stiles knows that Miss Cora's parents don't want her visiting the hunting camp, but Cora is the one who bought him. He's in her name, and she marks him. He figures that makes him loyal to her, first, even though others in the family also use him for tasks. Nobody has told him to report on her for going out to see her girlfriend. He willingly and quickly gets ready to go when she says, "Come, Stiles," and then lowers her voice and adds, with a slight smile and bright eyes, "let's go see Allison."

Stiles ducks into the slave boys' bathroom and scrubs his fingernails, takes off his apron, rolls down his sleeves, smooths his hair, grabs his going-out jacket from a hall closet and buttons it on. He's about to change into his going-out shoes, but Cora tells him there's no need to bother changing shoes to go to the camp.

Cora has some friends who drive their own cars, either because they're not rich enough for drivers, or for the fun of it, and one of them gives Cora and Stiles a ride out to Allison's camp.

The car turns off the paved road and onto thin, dusty gravel. When the gravel fades out, Miss Cora and Stiles get out of the car. Cora thanks the driver and waves her off, and she and Stiles start up the path to the camp. It's a rut of plain dirt until they reach the fence. There, some black rubber matting provides footing under what is apparently meant to be the gate.

The hunters' fence is made out of ashwood lattice, wired and mended in several places. It's propped up around the perimeter of the camp, and wherever it's cracked or rotted, the hunters have used thin, galvanized plates to keep the ash pieces touching each other. Stiles unfastens a clip holding two lattice panels together, but he can't swing the moveable piece open. It's not on a hinge. It's just wired to a post, so he has to lift and wiggle it to make plenty of room for Miss Cora to pass through on the rubber matting. He follows her, then lifts and wiggles the fence panel again, trying to pull it far enough to once more touch the opposite piece of mountain ash lattice.

Allison has walked down to meet them, and gives Stiles tips on how to get the two pieces back together. "It's fussy. I'm sorry, we need to get a real fence, and Dad says we will, every time we move the camp. But once we're set up, he says we'll do it when we move again."

The camp isn't anything like Cora's other friends' houses. There's no porch for Stiles to stay on. She brings him into Allison's square tent, as if to her own bedroom, and he kneels on the tarpaulin floor and knits. The tent has a stuffy smell. Sunlight shines dimly through the material, and brightly in at the door flap, which is clipped to the side to admit some air. The air doesn't move in; the freshness hangs by the door.

After a while of kneeling there while the girls talk, sometimes hearing them burst out giggling or laughing, Stiles realizes they have begun to talk about him.

"He is cute," says Allison, relaxing with one leg tucked up on her cot, her hand around her knee. "I wish you'd let him go, though."

"I couldn't do that, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. He's not even as old as you and me. Where would he go?"

"I could have survived at his age," says Allison.

Cora sniffs and tosses her head. "You. That's different. You know you're different from any other human."

"He could get a job in a kitchen." Allison sits up straight with the realization. "He's fully trained."

"He has a job with _me_."

"Yeah, but he could be free."

Stiles shudders.

Allison leans toward Cora, hinting: "You could free him and pay him to be your gate boy."

Cora rears back. "My parents would have to know!"

Allison slumps a little. "That's true. Hey, you know how to sew. I want you to look at this bag of scraps I've been keeping. Do you think they'd be good enough to make a patchwork quilt?"

Stiles gives a quiet sigh and lets himself get absorbed in his knitting again.

While the girls chatter and kiss each other, Stiles knits. When the sun is going down, Cora anticipates that her friend with the car will be waiting to pick her up. Allison walks her down to the ash fence, with their fingers intertwined loosely. When they see the friend's car is already waiting, they walk a little faster. Stiles manages the gate.

Cora blows a kiss to Allison from over the rickety lattice. Allison dimples and ducks her head.

In the car, Cora is smiling and talkative. She and her friend do some shopping, with Stiles to handle doors, gates, and packages. The gates for the rest of the day are well-oiled and sturdy.

********

Miss Cora does not risk going out to the hunters' camp often. She checks with Allison first to make sure that her father, Mr. Chris Argent, isn't there. The Argents don't want Allison to have a werewolf girlfriend any more than Miss Cora's parents want her to have a hunter girlfriend.

One chilly, grey day, in the middle of making visits to friends' houses, Cora switches cars to join the same friend who drove her out to the hunting camp before.

Cora says, "Stiles, look out of the window and watch the top of that little hill. There's a pack of feral wolves playing out there."

Stiles looks, and his heart give a beat of homesickness. The brown wolves aren't paying any attention to the car; they're trying to push each other down the hill, mock-biting each other sidewise, shoving and snapping. If they were a little more violent, and different sizes and colors, they'd look like a party going on in the big hall at Duke's.

The friend asks, "Do you still want me to leave you at the camp?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure we'll be fine." Cora fusses with the hem of her skirt and tugs her sleeves. "It's a short walk to the gate."

The wild wolves have long since disappeared by the time the car comes to a stop at the last thin gravel. Cora thanks her friend and waves them goodbye. She hesitates only a little way up the path, and Stiles wonders if he should offer her his arm to help navigate the mud, or if that would be rude. It has rained; there's a damp smell over everything, and the dirt path has become muddy and sticky in the middle, and slick on the sides. When he steps too high up the side, his ankle wobbles and his foot slides back down into the middle of the rut. Cora stops entirely and sniffs the air delicately, then takes a deep, loud breath through her nose and clears it out with an unladylike snort.

Stiles has to move a little faster than normal to stay a few steps ahead of his mistress. Cora is not going at her usual sedate pace, nor briskly from anticipation at seeing Allison, but in a nervous, stiff-legged walk. "How fast can those wolves get here? I wonder if Allison knows there are wolves near here. I can smell them. If it's the same pack, they followed us after all. I hope she comes to meet us."

Allison is not yet at the gate. Stiles remembers how he unfastened the clip and lifted the moveable piece out of the way last time. It's getting the panels back together that will be tricky. Cora's eyes flash and she grows some fur on her jawline, the tips of her ears lengthen, and she looks in the direction of the road, then darts through the opening. Stiles tenses, holding the gate for that second he's meant to hold it open to be polite, but Miss Cora gives him a quick nod and he rushes to close it.

Stiles grabs both the pieces: the one that stays in place, and the one that stretches across the matting, and yanks to try to get them to touch. One of the many galvanized plates connects two pieces of a cracked board, but a screw that was driven through the plate and into the wood has created another crack. That section gives a little when Stiles tries to rock the fence under his palm to make it easier to get into place. He has to step on the mud with one foot, his other heel braced on the rubber mat. His left foot, on the mud, slides out from underneath him, and he goes straight down on his knee. He grips the latticework as he falls, and hears it break with a crackling noise of rotted wood. The left side of his face bumps something, hard. There's a burning scrape on his cheek.

Stiles uses the latticework to help himself up. It teeters, and he loses his grip and topples sideways. He scrambles in the mud to get up, then sways for a moment, dizzy from falling and standing up so quickly. The gate is standing open. The edge of a thin T-plate is exposed where the wood broke away from it on one side. Its metal edge is what he hit with his face when he fell down on his knee. The bottom part of the lattice is unbroken and can almost reach across the mat. Stiles pats around in the mud and finds the piece that broke off in his hand. Guiltily he lays it on the ground so that with the fence panels it makes a continuous ash wood line. At least now no wolves can get in. "I'm sorry. Sorry about this."

Stiles wipes his dirty thumb on his apron, then rubs it over his cheekbone to see if he can tell how bad the scrape on his cheek is, and comes away with a blood smear. His eyebrow ridge has a sharp ache, in a moment it begins to sting and after a minute it throbs. Stiles feels a tickle in the fold of his upper eyelid, and that turns out to be blood, too. "Sorry," he mumbles again, searching his pockets for his handkerchief.

"Let me see your face," says Cora. "Rub some of the blood off so I can see the cuts."

Allison has arrived. Stiles tries to ask her about closing the gate the right way, but she only checks that he's made a solid line of ash, and tells Cora, "Let's get him to the first aid tent. I want to see his face under a light. Somebody else can bother with fixing this stupid gate."

There's a white sink in the hunters' first aid tent. Allison has Stiles bend over it and runs cold water over his cuts until he has a crick in his back. Then she gives him a thickly folded piece of gauze to hold over his brow and cheek. Allison sets a timer, and she and Cora sit and talk while Stiles waits.

When blood seeps through to Stiles's fingers, Allison gives him more gauze. After twenty minutes, they gently peel the gauze away, and soon Stiles feels blood creeping across the top of his eyelid again. Allison gives him a sudden, bruising pinch on the cheek, then another on the brow. "It's not gonna close. He needs stitches."

"I'll call my friend's car back," says Cora.

"We'll take a Jeep. I'll drive." Allison adds more gauze and tapes it in place for Stiles. It must be serious if they're taking him to a doctor. It doesn't feel that serious.

Allison isn't afraid to drive out while there are feral werewolves around. "The Jeep only needs trails, not roads, and we don't need to go anywhere near where that pack is nosing around."

Stiles has never ridden in a Jeep before. It's noisy and rattles around a lot on the rutted dirt trails. His face still stings, and he gets a little motion sick when he looks out the window, but the roaring Jeep engine calms him. He likes it.

In the waiting area at the clinic, Stiles kneels on the floor. The tape holding his bandage on tickles his brow. He scratches at it, but then it tugs at his skin. Cora leans forward in her seat, then settles back, repeatedly, as if she can't get comfortable. "Father's going to be furious with me for taking Stiles to the camp."

"It's all my fault," says Allison.

"No, it's not your fault. It's mine."

It's not Stiles's place to say anything, but the young ladies are so troubled that he purposely disengages his brain to mouth filter, because they seem to have missed the obvious truth: "It's my fault. I'm too clumsy."

Allison leans over in her seat to look at him. "Stiles, I'm so sorry this happened."

A nurse calls them into the examination room. She makes Stiles sit on a table to wait for the doctor. The doctor comes in, smiles at Stiles, and asks Cora and Allison what happened. He looks at the wound carefully, and then washes it—this time that hurts, not like when Allison cleaned it gently at the camp. "I apologize," says the doctor. "There may be some tiny splinters from the metal plate in there, we have to get them out before I can close it."

"I'm so sorry," Allison says again.

"He can take it," says Cora. "Can't you, Stiles?"

"Yes."

"Good boy."

The doctor blots the wound dry, then rubs a cream around the cuts. "Now we wait to let that work, so you'll be numb, then I'll put in a few sutures."

Stiles sits on the table, not sure what to do with his legs or his hands, for half an hour.

"I should have thought to bring your knitting along," says Cora. "It's in the first aid tent back at the camp."

The doctor comes back in and does a slow, careful suturing job, which feels really weird with the anaesthetic cream. Stiles gets bumping and pulling sensations, but doesn't notice the prick of the needle. He starts trying to touch and feel the spot before the doctor is done, and has to sit on his hand.

Cora says, "My father won't be happy if Stiles has scars on his face. Can you please make it so it won't scar?"

"I'm sorry. It's going to scar," says the doctor. "I can refer you to a plastic surgeon who can minimize the effect."

"Minimize it by how much?"

"There will be scarring, but it will show less."

"But you'll still see it?"

"Some, yes. How much depends on several factors. The surgeon can tell you more."

Cora cringes, then sighs. "My father isn't going to like this."

The doctor gives them ointment that Stiles is supposed to apply to prevent infection, and to control the scar a little bit without surgery. Stiles doesn't want surgery; he doesn't want to lie totally asleep and have somebody work on his face. He knows he doesn't have a choice, if Miss Cora's father says they should do it, but he's scared of it.

He has to come back in one week to have the sutures taken out.

Allison suggests relaxing and recovering with a fast-food treat. She brings the food out to eat in the Jeep, and won't let Stiles help her carry the tray. Stiles has had burgers and soda before, at kitchen training, but this burger is different. Kind of mushy and with a strong taste of onion. The soda is watered down with half-melted ice. He enjoys it.

Cora's father isn't home when they get there. The other slaves want the detailed story of Stiles's bandage. When he takes it off to apply the ointment, the other boys hover to have a look at the cuts.

Stiles can't go out with Miss Cora for a week, until the bandage comes off permanently and the sutures come out. Her father says the apron was bad enough, but the bandages on Stiles's face are unacceptable. Stiles takes the time he would have spent idle, and works as fast as he can on the ropes of finger knitting for Cora's blanket. He gets nervous sometimes during the day, and he's glad to have his knitting apron so he can ball up his fists inside the pocket and hide the shaking of his hands. Sometimes his jaw clenches and works so that it's noticeable, until Akio asks him what's wrong.

Stiles tells Akio that he's not worried. "I've had kitchen training, and I was never meant to be seen in public, anyway. If the scars are really bad, I'll be sold to someone who will put me to work behind the scenes, and it won't matter what my face looks like." He tries to chuckle casually, but it sounds hollow.

At night, long after time to fall asleep, Stiles thinks he's awake, in the hallway with the other boys sleeping around him, and that the hall ceiling is an endless blackness dropping down slowly onto him. Then he wakes up and finds out the blackness was a dream. This happens three nights in a row, before he goes to have the sutures removed. This time, Cora's father comes along, and talks to a plastic surgeon.

Cora's father decides against surgery.

Cora is quietly furious with her father and upset with herself, but she assures Stiles she's not angry with _him_. "He keeps saying I can't be taking you around in public and calling our family's reputation into question. The mark is right there on your face, and it looks like a claw wound. We can't have nice people thinking we did it, or that a friend of ours did. Father thinks that it'll still look like a claw wound, even with the best the surgeon could do, and then—well, he says he would have wasted the money on the surgery! I wish he would let me keep you, but I'm afraid he's going to wait until you heal and then I'll have to give you away."

"That's not fair! It was your money. You bought me yourself."

Cora smiles at him, and Stiles realizes he's spoken way out of turn. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please pardon me, Miss." He's been standing near her vanity chair, because she called him to her room and didn't ask him to kneel, but now he sinks to his knees to show how sorry he is.

"I keep trying to tell him it isn't fair. It's not fair to you. And you _are_ mine. But everything I do reflects on the whole house. So... we'll see what happens. I'll keep arguing with him. And when I have my own house and all of the slaves are mine, I'm going to keep scarred ones and fidgety ones all the time!"

That night, when he's supposed to be in his sleeping bag, Stiles stares in the mirror in the slave boys' bathroom and tries to guess how bad the scar will be. It does look like a werewolf swiped his brow and cheekbone with the tip of a claw. What kind of place can he get, with a noticeable scar on his face? He knows why Miss Cora's father wants to give him away; a family such as this one will sell only really good slaves.

Miss Cora stews silently for the next few days. When she puts on her makeup after a shower, she doesn't smile at the effect in her mirror. She scowls while she puts on the makeup, and she scowls at her pretty reflection.

Finally, Cora tells Stiles: "My father has a friend who's going to take you. I listened to them having a meeting in Father's den. It's mostly outdoor work, and I know you like that." She gives him a worried, thoughtful look. "Master Sorley has killed a human being before. Does that scare you?"

"No, Miss."

Cora gives him another long, serious look, then says, "Master Sorley has a yearly contract with two city parks. They weren't going to give it to him again this year, because he already lost this job once, for killing a human. The nice people in the neighborhood don't want someone with a quick temper around. But Sorley has a friend on the city maintenance board or something like that, who spoke up for him. My father vouches for him, too. You won't belong to the city, don't worry. Master Sorley will be your owner. The city doesn't keep slaves for the parks. He keeps his own slaves to do the work, out of his salary."

On the night before Stiles is to be given away, Cora sews quickly on the chains he knitted for her blanket, and she shows it to him, finished.

"Thank you for letting me see it before I have to leave."

"You've been a good boy, Stiles."

********


	4. The Concession Stand

********

In the car on the way to the park, Stiles watches the streets and houses go by outside the window: tall, fancy houses with iron fences. He absently tries to ball his fists up in his apron pocket and then finds out he isn't wearing an apron. His stomach chills and his heart drops, because he knows the apron is in Cora's room, and in the pocket are the letters from his father. He and Miss Cora both forgot all about them while she was getting him ready to go away. She said goodbye to him in the driveway at her house. Her father and the driver are the only people in the car with Stiles.

They pull into a drive between two large, stone pillars that mark a park entrance, and stop before cement poles that block cars from the pedestrian paths.

"This is Master Sorley."

Stiles's new master is rangy, with bony knees and elbows, and thick, wavy brown hair. Sorley gives Stiles a small, crooked smile. He clasps Cora's father's hands and thanks him for the great favor; he couldn't afford a slave with Stiles's training. Cora's father hands over Stiles's paperwork.

Stiles can't see the whole park from the entrance where he's standing. There's a lot of precisely mowed, soft-looking grass, and full-grown shade trees, neatly spaced. A chilly breeze ruffles his clothes and he twists his fingers together and shivers.

Stiles thought that he would be the only new slave in the park, but the others are all new, too. There are five, including Stiles, all men and boys. Master Sorley calls them in from all over the park. He can really shout, a thunderous sound. He looks over the assembly and stops at a lanky young man whose curly brown hair is short on the sides and stands up on top. "Jack is the boss while I'm gone." Sorley's voice is deep and loud even when he's just talking.

"Here." He tosses a cell phone to Jack. "Call me if you ever need me when I'm not around. I split my time; I have three boys at the other park."

Then he takes them all with him into the restroom. The park land belongs to everyone, so Master Sorley marks only the slaves, not the perimeter. Stiles is feeling weird because he knows he smelled like Miss Cora owned him until now. The change seems abrupt and jarring even though, after he's rinsed, he can't smell it himself.

Master Sorley says as he leaves them, "Pick some fresh sticks when you're cleaning this evening. I'll leave you some marshmallows for the fireplace in the shelter. Jack, show Stiles what he should do and what he can have for supper."

There are only a few guests dotted around on the grass and on benches; the breeze is getting chillier. The slaves empty trash cans, separate recyclables and replace trash bags. They pull out aluminum cans dripping with stale beer and flat Coca-Cola.

The paths are of fine, dark grey gravel, and make a gritty noise when Stiles walks on them. They're lined with tall lamps, like street lights, with black poles that have decorative flares at the base to make them fancier than regular street lights.

Stiles and the others cook their dinner at the concession stand. It's painted red, and has a real shingled roof, like a tiny house. Stiles almost groans aloud with anticipation when Jack says, "Master Sorley said we can have two burger patties apiece, because it's our first day." They get canned sodas, too. Then they walk back to the brick restrooms and brush their teeth.

There are two big park shelters with fireplaces in them. The slaves sleep in one. Stiles has never slept in a place without walls before, but there is an ash line to protect them. It's just a string coated with ashes of mountain ash, and the slaves unroll it and fasten it to each support pillar of the shelter, and knot the ends together. They light a fire and unroll rugs to sleep on.

Stiles has never eaten a marshmallow. Jack teaches him how to toast one on a stick.

Leaning over, turning and toasting his marshmallow, a slave named Mercury mutters, "I shouldn't be here."

"Where should you be?" asks Stiles, muffled by marshmallow that's sticking equally to his fingers and the corners of his mouth.

"Oregon. Slave catchers raided us at our own camp. I'm a freeman, or was. Slave catchers don't care if you're free, once they've got you." Mercury chews his thumbnail and watches his marshmallow catch fire, then lets it fall into the flame, and burns the center that was still hanging onto the stick until it's black. He asks for another marshmallow and lets that one go up in flames and fall into the fire, too.

"Stop wasting those," says Jack. "We want to save some for tomorrow night."

"They sold me as if they had a right to. Well, they don't. And I'm going to go back soon. I'm going to leave here, first chance I get."

"Maybe I shouldn't be listening to this," says Jack.

Mercury sticks two more marshmallows onto the end of his sharp stick and blackens them both at once. They drip into the fire. After a while he murmurs, "Never mind. Never mind."

In the morning the five of them shake out their rugs, roll them up, make sure the shelter is clean for park-goers to use during the day, take the ash line off and go out. It's cool and dewy at first, while they check to make sure no trash got missed last night.

Stiles and one other slave run the concession stand. They serve fried eggs, hamburgers, hot dogs, and all kinds of hot sandwiches; basically all stuff Stiles knows how to do. Plus he learns the cotton candy machine.

Slaves are allowed to receive mail here. Stiles has only been at the park for a few days when Master Sorley hands him a big manila envelope from Miss Cora. Inside it are Dad's letters! Stiles asks Master Sorley if he can keep them. "If you can find a place out of the way to stash them, sure."

Stiles frets over finding a dry place that won't be in anyone's way and that he can always get to. He has to wear a kitchen apron if he's on concession stand duty, but he changes it for a gardening apron if he's weeding, so there's no one apron that's only his. He has his own sleeping rug, so finally he decides to tuck the letters into it when it's rolled up, and look at them every night when he unrolls it. This plan also allows him to sleep with the letters.

On warm, still evenings, cleaning up the park when the sun goes down is torture because of the mosquitoes. All Stiles can think about then is mosquito netting. He thinks of it as he performs his tasks and his bare ankles are getting destroyed by bites. He thinks of it when all the cleaning is done and he and the other slaves speed-walk through the clouds of mosquitoes to the brick restrooms where there are no mosquitoes. He gets a drink of water and uses the toilet, then runs across the park to the shelter and helps to get the mosquito netting in place.

Stiles and Mercury unroll netting and stand on tables to fasten it along the inside edge of the shelter roof. Meanwhile, two others run the ash-ash line around the pillars and tie it, and then they're all safe from mosquitoes and werewolves.

On nights when it's cold, there are thankfully fewer mosquitoes. The slaves have a fire in the big stone fireplace and huddle close to each other to keep warm. Some nights, they can see a solitary wolf trotting along the pathway under the lights. The ferals stay away from the trash cans and the concession area as long as there are guests in the park, because the guests defend the territory against them with looks, and sometimes with sharp words and lifted hackles. But at night, there's nobody to stop them from exploring the park.

Sometimes Master Sorley doesn't get a chance to come by their park until late at night, but he marks the slaves every day, even if he has to ask them to untie the ash string and come out to him. They're especially grateful for this when the full moon comes.

Then, there's lots of howling, starting when it's barely sunset. In the evening the park is crowded with guests, scuffling and snarling, the noises intensifying whenever some new wolf or pack shows up. As night falls, more and more werewolves are in full-wolf form, quick-tempered and prowling, and coming around corners or out of the brush when slaves least expect them.

The wolves' fights are noisy and careless. That much Stiles is used to from Master Deucalion's. But these wolves are not his friends, and Master Duke isn't here to keep everyone in line. And if Stiles did get hurt, these wolves might not stop fighting and help him.

Master Sorley has two parks to worry about, so his slaves are never sure whether they'll see him before night. When Master Sorley does come through on a full moon, in a bristling half-shift, the guest werewolves part and mill around quietly.

After closing, the noisy night goes on outside the boundaries of the park. Whenever it gets quiet for a moment, the slaves begin to doze off in their park shelter, and then some cry will startle them all awake again. By the time everything calms down, the slaves are exhausted from being half-awake all night.

The full moon isn't the only time when park guests are in full wolf shape. Sometimes domestic werewolves come out on picnics, and there will be one or two family members sprawled on a corner of the blanket in full wolf form. Daytime howl choruses start up sometimes—but then if Master Sorley is there he sings, too, and his voice overwhelms everyone else's. Then the guests' voices, striving to compete, get higher pitched and crack into growly moans, until soon they go quiet.

Alongside the paths, all kinds of manzanita trees and shrubs grow in clusters. The manzanita trees, shorter than the park shade trees, reach over the paths with their tangled branches. Between and under them the shrubbier kinds of manzanita grow in wild clumps, so thick and close that you can't see into them even in daytime, and at night they have black shadows behind and under their leaves. During park hours, especially at twilight, werewolf pups like to hide in those low shrubs, wait for the sound of footsteps on the gritty path, and jump out at their parents and siblings. It looks like fun to Stiles.

One misty morning, Mercury is not in the shelter when Stiles and the others wake up. They search and call half-heartedly, but they all know he's left the park, and of his own free will. It's so misty they can't see across the park. Trees are black shapes, then grey shapes, then you can't see them at all. Jack says he's going to have to call the master.

It takes Master Sorley some time to get there, and the haze lingers while they wait. Sorley walks across the dark green grass before the white mist, and calls Mercury's name in his booming voice. He takes off his clothes, folds them, hands them to Jack and says, "Put these in the concession stand for me." Sorley turns into a massive brown wolf with tan fur on his toes. He sniffs the ground all around the park shelter, then stops and sniffs hard in one spot, lifts his head and scents the air. Then he lopes off into the mist at a lazy pace.

Jack holds the folded clothes for some time. "I guess we're supposed to get to work."

"Do you think Mercury had anyone waiting for him?"

"If he didn't, if he's on foot, Master will catch him and kill him. If he comes back on his own Master might only claw him."

The remaining four slaves work slowly, staring in the direction that Mercury must have taken when he ran, as if he might come back. But, of course, he wouldn't come back whether he made it or not.

Jack swears quietly every so often. None of them can eat anything.

It's after dark when the master comes back alone, at that same steady lope. He turns human and goes into the concession stand, which Stiles is closing for the evening. The other slaves are picking up litter and swabbing picnic tables. Master Sorley puts on his clothes, runs his hands over his hair and then walks to where the slaves are standing, watching him. "You don't need to wait for him anymore. He's dead."

Stiles sits down on the little metal step that leads up to the concession stand's door. He knew runaways got killed, so he thinks he shouldn't be surprised by what happened, but he feels as if he's been punched in the stomach. He can't breathe, and covers his head.

Master crouches down on Stiles's level and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Calm down, Stilinski. I'm not going to kill you. I only killed him because he ran."

"I know," Stiles whispers. "I know, Master, I'm sorry."

Jack approaches them hesitantly. "Master..."

"Yes?"

"We all knew, he told us he was a freeman and that he was getting out of here. I'm the foreman, you put me in charge, so it's my fault. I apologize. Do what you need to do with me."

"It's why he was so cheap, I'm sure," says Master Sorley. "Don't worry about it, Jack. It's not your fault, it's the fault of those stupid slave traders, and my low budget. Let it go."

"Um—I'm—thank you, Master. I'm—"

"Don't apologize again. What's done is done."

"Yes, Master."

The next day, Master Sorley booms, "Stilinski, you've got mail," and hands Stiles a thick envelope with a return address in the corner that he recognizes. It's the name of the archery club that Miss Allison belongs to. Inside the envelope is another envelope, stamped, and addressed to Shannon S., care of the archery club. It's a self-addressed stamped envelope. Stiles stares at it for a minute before he pulls several folded sheets out of the first envelope—it's a long letter from his dad. Five pages, at least. And he can write back to him.

Stiles writes a note every day for several days, then flattens them out as thin as they'll go, to make sure the one stamp will be enough. He describes the park, Master Sorley and his loud voice, the little concession stand and the treats he would cook for his dad if he could visit the park. He writes about Mercury more than once, and throws it out every time.

Even though Dad wrote a long letter, there's not anything in it to tell where he is, although obviously the Argents or somebody else at the archery club must know. Dad writes a lot about food: what he likes to eat, what Deucalion likes to eat. He doesn't mention Duke by name, but Stiles recognizes the differences between his father's and Master Duke's favorites. He has an uncomfortable feeling that his father and Duke are going hungry. He wonders if they even have any place to stay.

Often when the concession stand closes in the evening, there's some leftover food. Master Sorley says that if they can't reheat it the next day to sell to customers, they should give it to anyone that wants it. Stiles is closing up one late evening when the sunset light is brighter than at noon. There's a basket of leftover fries, and no guests around to give it to. French fries are never kept over until the next day. Stiles ate two caramel apples and one candied apple with one hand while wiping down the appliances with the other hand, so he has to ruefully admit to himself that he is not hungry for more than a few of the fries.

Stiles looks out the customer service window to see if any of the boys are coming back from gardening. A fully shifted werewolf is looking right back at him, standing on the pavement just beyond a red picnic table. At first glance, startled by someone so close when he was sure he was alone, Stiles thinks the wolf looks huge. When he takes a longer, calmer look, he sees that the wolf has big ears and high shoulders, but he's thin and scroungy. He doesn't look well-fed and domestic. He looks starved. If there were any guests around, he probably wouldn't dare to be this close to the concession stand.

Master Sorley did say to give leftovers to _anyone_ who wants them. Master Duke is hiding somewhere, on the run. What if he's as hungry as this wolf is?

Stiles lines a basket with fresh waxed paper, piles it with fries, and brings it out to the picnic table. He steps slowly, holding the basket aloft and keeping his eyes on the feral wolf, and speaks in a low, steady voice. "Sir, here are some free French fries. Compliments of the park." He sets the basket on the table and retreats, walking slowly backward and sideways into the concession stand. He knows he risks tripping over something this way, but he isn't sure how feral this wolf is: whether he's a regular werewolf who looks really hungry, or whether he's more wild than that, so Stiles errs on the side of never turning his back on him.

The wolf cautiously climbs up onto the picnic table and sniffs briefly at the fries, then gobbles them all down. He sits on the table looking out at the park for a long moment. When he climbs down again and trots slowly away, cutting across the lawn toward a spot where the path widens, Stiles feels safe coming out again.

Stiles retrieves the plastic basket from the table. He checks over his shoulder to make sure the wolf isn't coming back, and sees two men some yards away, wearing crossbows in slings and murmuring to each other. Stiles can't hear what they're saying.

Master Sorley comes up beside him unexpectedly; Stiles drops the basket, which, being plastic, only bounces with a faint clatter. Sorley tells Stiles to go inside the concession stand and wait until he tells him to come out. Then he strides over to the hunters. Stiles snatches up the basket and goes inside, closes the door, and watches out the service window.

He can hear the master clearly. "Are you hanging around a **public park** with **crossbows**?"

One of the hunters replies; Stiles can't hear him. It seems as if he's giving some long explanation.

" **Unacceptable**."

This time Stiles can hear the hunter. "It's a public place."

"Not for you, it's not," growls Sorley.

"We'd never do anything when the park is open. We're only after the ratty ferals that come around here. Your guests are safe."

"You could shoot or snare one of my slaves by mistake. If I see you hunting around here, I'll kill you."

By this time the quiet hunter is tugging at the loud hunter's arm. But he keeps on talking. "We're doing you a favor. You ought to be grateful to us for getting rid of those pests for you."

"Leave that to me. Get out of my park."

The hunter protests again: "It's public property."

The master half-wolfs and a lot of hair stands up above his shirt collar, making a big brush of hackles.

"Calm down," says the loud hunter in an exasperated voice, but he walks toward an exit of the park anyway, his companion pulling him by the arm to hurry him up.

Master Sorley, breathing hard through his nose, steps quickly back to the concession stand. He tells Stiles in a harsh voice, without looking at him, that he can come out now. Then he stalks off toward the shelter area.

Stiles is shaken by how angry the master was at those men. He makes sure that he didn't forget anything in closing the stand, since he was interrupted by giving leftovers to the homeless wolf.

Master Sorley sounds cheerful just a short while later, when he calls Stiles in with the others to be marked.

Hurrying on his way to the restroom in response to Sorley's call, Stiles is coming to a bend in one of the paths when a fully shifted wolf pup leaps out of the manzanita bushes. Stiles startles and hunches down instinctively. A second pup rushes out to meet the first, from behind a big tree on the lawn, and the two begin to tussle. Stiles straightens up and takes a deep breath. He smiles at their enthusiastic snarling and walks on; he notices the hole in the bushes where the first pup was lying in wait. Around the curve, there's another hole, the same size and shape. Maybe the pups were building play forts. The holes seem too exactly the same to be gardeners' work, clearing out dead branches. Both holes face the broad lawn, from different points on the bend in the path, and look like they make perfect ambush spots.

Sorley marks his slaves and leaves for his other park before supper. The lights begin to come up when twilight comes down. Between supper and bedtime is the last check for trash on the grounds. The slaves spread out. Stiles goes walking back along the path where the pups were playing, checking for loose cans and other trash under the edges of the bushes. He's under one of the path lights when out of the side of his eye he sees something frightening, and jumps sideways before he can think about it. He has to catch his balance and slowly stands straight up again, staring full on now at the thing that startled him. It's only one of those holes that was cleared out of the bushes. In the afternoon, the holes were deep green and dark brown, not much darker than the other shadows around them. At night, because of the white light from the path lamp coming down from above, the hole is black and feels as if an invisible predator could be inside and leap out at any moment.

Stiles lets out a breath, embarrassed to have been so scared. He comes to another pool of lamp light, and this time he only startles slightly when the blackness of the second of those two holes is suddenly alongside him. He gives up on finding any more cans and goes home for the night.

Stiles sleeps fitfully on his rug for a couple of hours. Suddenly he sits up. The pups didn't make such precisely matching brush forts. He knows why those holes in the bushes are there, and what they are for. "Jack."

Jack mumbles and tries to scrunch himself further down into his rug.

"Jack, can you call the master?"

"What, call him on the phone? What for?" Jack sits up and looks quickly at the other slaves on their rugs. "Has somebody else gone missing?"

"No. Everyone's here."

"So, what's the matter, then?"

"Master Sorley had an argument with some hunters earlier."

"Yeah, I know, I could hear him yelling."

"I think they're going to come back, and he will not be happy about it. Or do you think they'll stay away because he yelled at them?"

"Probably not. Hunters are stupid."

"I know one who isn't stupid." Stiles thinks of Allison, who knew what to do when he cut his face, and who is probably the reason his dad knows where he is.

"Well, stubborn, then." Jack yawns. "Is there a point to this?"

"I think there are ambush holes in the manzanita under those lamps, where we see the feral wolf go by at night. There will probably be an ash line out on the lawn, so the wolf can't get away from one hunter without passing the second one. Master Sorley will want to know. Will you please call him?"

Jack is already getting out the cell phone. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Don't worry, I won't go near the hunters." Stiles doesn't wait around for Jack to tell him he can't go.

He moves barefoot across the grass, avoiding the gritty, noisy paths. He tries to shade his eyes from the lamplight that shines down in pools over the path several yards away, to be able to adjust his sight to the dark grass at his feet. It's shaded into even deeper blackness by big trees on either side of him. He's trying to find the ash line he guesses must be there. He could be looking for either a string or a chain, coated in ash-ash, but not a line of loose ash sticks, because the grass would break it up.

He can't walk any closer to the lamps without fear that the hunters will see him from their blinds in the bushes on the other side of the path. It's easy to picture them, crouched in those black mouths in the manzanita.

Stiles creeps to the trunk of one of the big trees and feels around it, trying to find a string tied to it. There's not a sound from the path, but a shadow moves across a distant light and he looks up. A silhouette jogs beneath a lamp. Stiles thinks it's the wolf who ate the French fries. He shouts, "Hey, mister!" It's a timid shout, because he's afraid of the hunters, and the wolf barely pays him any mind. He looks in Stiles's direction briefly, but he doesn't stop jogging.

The werewolf approaches the first hole in the bushes, slows, then ducks away and trots out onto the lawn. He's smelled or heard the first hunter. Now Stiles is sure that two hunters are in those holes. Stiles can barely see the wolf in the edge of the path light, his head and neck extended stiffly toward the bushes. He must be scenting hard, trying to be sure. Probably he heard something, or saw something, but hasn't been able to verify it with scent. Suddenly the wolf jumps a foot in the air, twists and comes down facing Stiles, and runs right at him.

A couple of feet away the wolf stops hard and falls back with a yelp of alarm. He gets up, quivering, and runs back and forth, trying to find a way out without returning to the path. Stiles darts forward and pats the ground around where the wolf hit the line. There's a delicate metal chain laid loosely across the grass.

Stiles whispers over the whining of the panicked werewolf. "Sir, sir, over here, I'm going to break it—I'm trying to break it."

The wolf comes to him and pants harshly, crouching. "Please don't knock me over." Stiles winds the chain around his hand and yanks, and the line breaks. The werewolf brushes hard against Stiles, but doesn't knock him over, and disappears in a burst of werewolf speed.

Stiles realizes that the hunters will come looking for the wolf when he never appears in the circle of light covered by the second hunter. And if they see Stiles, they'll know what he's done. So he climbs the nearest tree. It's easy to scramble up at first. Then he starts needing something to hold onto before there's a branch he can reach, so he has to cling with his thighs, and his knees get bruised and his legs get scraped. But he hitches himself up little by little, breathing hard, worrying that he's not fast enough, that the hunters will come too soon and see him. He gets his fingertips onto a thick branch and strains, but can't quite reach over the top. He has to let it go and work his way up with his arms and knees hugging the tree, his toes curling and catching in the bark. He tries again and this time he can reach over the branch. He pulls himself up and then climbs higher, until he's afraid that the rustling and creaking noises he's making will be as bad as being seen. He stops, straddles a branch, splays his hands over the bark and tries to quiet his breathing.

A small piece of light breaks away from the path lamps. It's a flashlight. The hunter moves toward the chain, pauses partway there and sweeps the light back and forth twice, looking for the werewolf. He comes closer to the chain and moves along it, looking for the broken place. The light pauses, Stiles guesses about at where he broke the chain—maybe the hunter is bending down now to tie a knot in it, or maybe he'll pick it up and try again another night. Stiles can't see clearly, can only see the blob of light, and the vague, dark shape of the hunter, maybe crouching down. Stiles guesses he's feeling around for the end of the chain in the grass, pausing to shine the light more directly on the gap. Stiles must have flung one end some distance away. He can see when the hunter decides to just go to the start of the line and pick it up. The light dances erratically across tree trunks, but it's in the opposite direction from Stiles's tree.

The flashlight's beam moves over the tan stripe on a pair of huge front paws, and glows on pale brisket fur. Master Sorley is in full shift. That's all the light can show before Sorley strikes and the flashlight rolls off to one side.

The hunter screams, his shadowy shape part of a much larger, struggling combined form—he seems to scream for a long time, but it's really only a few seconds before he makes a different sound and then is quiet.

Stiles is shaken by the scream. His fingertips are cold where he's clutching hard at the tree branch, and his legs are quivering. His nose is running, and a tear turns cold on his cheek. He hasn't blinked in some time. He thinks Master Sorley will tell him to come down from the tree now, but he doesn't. The flashlight is shining on nothing but grass, the patch in the dark is the dead hunter. Master Sorley slinks off toward the path and the hunters' blinds.

What if the other hunter is ready for him?

Every little noise of the park at night makes Stiles tense and listen. Something lands on his branch right in front of his leg— _touching_ his leg. Stiles thinks of arrows, weapons—he tries to see what it is without moving. At first he can't see anything, but he knows whatever it is, it's still there. He can feel something small pressing against his upper leg. Then he catches a glint of a large, dark eye. It's a flying squirrel. Stiles sat so still for so long that it glided right onto him. It's no more afraid of him than it is of a tree branch. Stiles sighs, and the squirrel climbs his hip and scrabbles away up the tree.

Master Sorley calls up, saying, "You can come down now, Stilinski. It's safe."

Stiles wants to hurry to obey, but he has to move very deliberately, because he's stiff from clinging and sitting in one spot, not to mention from terror, and he's afraid of losing his grip. His palms are tender in some places, numb in others, and molded into creases the same texture as the bark he was holding onto. The master climbs partway up and helps him down. "I didn't catch the other one, but I made sure he's not in the park."

From up in the tree Stiles was able to see the shape on the ground, but no details. As he descends, he cranes fearfully to see the body, but Sorley touches his head and guides his gaze away. "Don't look over there."

Master Sorley sees Stiles back to the park shelter. One of the other slaves lifts up the ash line for him. Stiles is hunched over, hugging himself and shivering. They put him by the fire and somebody brings him a paper cup of water. "Thanks," he whispers, and as soon as he's finished drinking he falls asleep.

When he wakes he finds out that he fell asleep sitting up. Somebody has wrapped a sleeping rug around his shoulders.

At the concession stand that morning, Jack says regretfully, "There will be an investigation. This is how he lost his job the first time."

Stiles begins working on another long letter to his father. Master Sorley is going to give him a stamp to use. During recreation, and whenever the concession stand is clean and ready and there are no customers, Stiles adds to it.

Master Sorley's contract is not renewed. He might get his job back some year, if somebody important can vouch for him, but for now this neighborhood and the city council have had enough of him.

When they get the decision, Master Sorley sits on the concession stand's stoop, shoulders rounded, running his hands through his hair and shaking his head. He can't afford his slaves without his contract, so he has to get rid of them.

"I wish I didn't have to do this," Master Sorley says over and over again. "You've been a good slave, Stilinski. I wish I didn't have to let you go."

Stiles retrieves his letters from his rolled-up sleeping rug.

********


	5. Hot Cider

********

Stiles is showered, combed, and naked. At the sale, having received no letter back, Stiles is looking for his dad so hard that it seems to be his imagination when he sees Aiden. But it _is_ Aiden.

Aiden obviously catches Stiles's scent, then sees him, and lights up and beelines for him. He shouts, "Stiles!" and hugs him. Stiles knows he'll get in trouble, but he hugs back.

The vendor pinches Stiles on the back of his upper arm. "Hands off the buyers."

Stiles knew punishment was coming, but the indignity of that pinch makes him feel like crying. He stands as straight as he can and looks over Aiden's shoulder at nothing, to compose himself. Aiden slaps Stiles fondly on the shoulder, steps back and looks him up and down, and turns to the vendor. At the next thing Aiden says, Stiles actually groans.

"If you don't sell him today, how much for just one or two days?"

The vendor frowns. "He's not trained for sex."

"No, uh, I just need some, er. Errands done."

"I don't know. Come back at the end of the day and if he's still here we'll talk about it."

"I'll—" Stiles is so determined, that he begins to speak out loud. He was going to say, _I'll still be here._ The vendor doesn't seem to notice, but Aiden does, and when he glances at Stiles's face, Stiles gives him his fiercest determined stare.

Aiden nods. "I'll come back at five o'clock." He sets a timer on his watch to prove it.

Stiles glances fearfully around to see how many potential buyers are at the sale, and tries to look as worthless as possible. His mouth is dry, and even to his own nose, his breath is foul. If he breathes on people, maybe they won't buy him. He aches all over from the suspense.

He can't believe it when he sees Aiden walking back across the floor. It's five o'clock.

The vendor calls somebody on the phone to get permission, and rents Stiles to Aiden for two days. "No pit fighting. If he looks like he's been fighting, you're paying full price for him."

Aiden bares a few teeth in a crooked little grin at Stiles, showing that he knows the idea of Stiles in a fight is ridiculous. He's brought some clothes for Stiles. "Gosh, I'm glad I saw you today. Your dad said you might be there, but he couldn't get away to find out."

"You saw my dad. You talked to my dad."

"Yeah."

"Aiden, you're like an angel."

Aiden chuckles. "First time anyone's compared me to an angel."

"But you are. Just like one. Now you know."

"Your dad got your letter," says Aiden. "He knew he couldn't get to this sale, so he asked me to go."

He takes Stiles out to an elderly sedan. "This is Erica's old car. She bought a newer one and lets me drive this one." They stop at a little store and Aiden buys two ready-to-bake pizzas. Then he makes a lot of turns through narrow, short streets and they pull up in front of a pale, dingy yellow brick apartment building.

They walk up three flights; Aiden lets Stiles carry the pizzas. Aiden unlocks a door and flicks on lights. The kitchen has very old, scroll-patterned tan vinyl flooring, and a small, white refrigerator, and smells a little musty. There are three peach-colored roses in a glass vase on the table. A black cat comes strolling across the vinyl, tail high in the air, making small, pleased noises.

"This is Bubbles, Erica's pet cat."

Stiles was going to ask if he may pet her, but the cat is already making a figure eight around his ankles. He leans down and places his palm over the top of her head, and she pushes up into the pressure and purrs.

"She's friendly, as you can see. This is Erica's apartment, but I don't know if you'll get to see her before I have to take you back. I really hope you will. She's out of town, and she won't be back until the end of the weekend."

Stiles met Erica when he lived at Duke's, and now he remembers her voice from when she called and told him Dad and Duke were alive. He wants to see her again. "Oh, um, did she—did she know you were renting me?"

"I didn't know it myself until today. I called her this afternoon and checked, and she said it was totally okay for me to bring you here. Erica lets me stay here all the time. She thinks it's because I'm her boyfriend. Which it is! I mean, I do love her. I just haven't told her I don't have a place to go besides here."

"You don't have a place to go?"

"Not really. Erica knows I used to spend a lot of time at Duke's, but she was there all the time, too. She doesn't know I have nowhere else to go."

"Aiden! You don't have a home?"

Aiden admits that he was living at Duke's, except when he occasionally crashed at friends' places. "Those of us who spent all our time with Duke aren't real popular anymore. I'll think of something. Duke and your dad don't have a home, either."

Stiles stares at his clasped fists and chews the inside of his lower lip. Eventually he asks, "Have you told her? Then she'd let you live here."

"Nah, I'll figure out something. If she knew, then she'd do what you said—she'd feel obligated to let me move in officially. So." He shrugs and half-smiles. "Help yourself to a drink; you must be thirsty."

Stiles goes to the sink and drinks deep and long with his hands, while Bubbles continues to curl fuzzily about his lower legs, purring.

Stiles refreshes the water for the roses, then kneels by the oven while he waits for it to preheat. He thinks he'll jump right up when the preheat beep sounds, but he falls asleep. The oven beep wakes him, and he blinks blearily and sways a little on his knees. By the time he's able to remember where he is, Aiden has already put the pizza in the oven.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please excuse me."

"Don't worry about it. I usually make my own pizza."

"But you rented me."

"You can keep me company this weekend. That's worth as much as throwing a pizza in the oven."

Stiles watches the pizza, takes it out of the oven, and cuts it. He serves Aiden at the table and eats his portion on the floor, kneeling and balancing a paper napkin with the grease from the hot pizza seeping through it. The pizza is very salty and rich. Stiles drinks a lot more water afterward.

After supper, Aiden sits on the couch with piles of coarsely woven throw pillows, and one plush pillow with a brown Teddy bear on its front. Aiden tucks that pillow under his arm. Stiles kneels by his feet, and Bubbles sits on the couch next to Aiden, curling her paws over the edge of the cushion, near Stiles's shoulder. She purrs between them while they're talking. The sound tickles Stiles's ear and warms his chest.

"I'm sorry I can't get a hold of your dad to tell him you're here," says Aiden. "I can't call him, he has to call me."

"So he might—he might call you while I'm here?"

"He might! I hope he does."

Stiles hopes so, too, so hard that he makes tight fists.

"Stiles... how much do you know about what happened at Deucalion's?"

"I know some. The slaves at kitchen training talked a lot about it."

Aiden pulls at the red ribbon bow sewn onto the pillow-bear's neck. "Do you know..." he clears his throat. "You know Kali got killed?"

"Yeah." Stiles looks down at the floor.

"I guess her boys got out."

Stiles's breathing is suddenly shallow and his belly feels tight. He has to tell Aiden. "Yeah. They got out for a little while. But Mohan is dead. I heard hunters got him almost right away."

"Aw, man." Aiden scrubs a hand down his face and sighs. He's quiet for a time and then adds, "That's sad news."

"Were you there that night?"

"Yes. Yeah."

"Were you hurt?"

"I got shot with one wolfsbane bullet. I got up on the roof, picked a spot to run for and ran. I got to the treeline, and then I did get hit, but only with the one bullet. I was pretty sick for a while, but I got to Erica and she found me a doctor. Don't worry, buddy. I'm all right."

"Thankfully! So Erica wasn't there."

"Luckily, no."

"Is, um... do you know if Master Deucalion is with my dad right now?"

"I think they had to split up for a little while, to throw some people off the idea that your dad is sticking with Duke. But I know if they can manage it, Shannon'll go back to him."

"But Duke was okay last he saw him?"

"Yeah, he was okay, that I know of. You know about his eyes, right?"

Stiles sags. "Yeah."

"I think we need some hot cider."

"I could heat it up for you, if you like."

"Sure, that'd be great," says Aiden. "It's just storebought. But if you simmer it on the stove it fancies it up. You could put a stick of cinnamon in it. Erica always has some around."

Aiden drinks from a mug and Stiles has a styrofoam cup. The cider is spicy, sour and sweet. Bubbles keeps patting Stiles's knee and meowing.

"She wants the cinnamon stick," Aiden explains.

"She likes cinnamon?"

"Not really. She wants the stick so she can bat it around on the floor."

Stiles gives Bubbles the damp cinnamon stick, and she taps it with her forepaws and makes it skid around on the kitchen vinyl, her eyes wide as if this is a thrilling game.

Aiden lets Stiles tidy up the kitchen. They have all the stuff in the kitchen that they'd need for French toast. Stiles tells Aiden so, and asks, "Would you like me to make you some, tomorrow morning?"

"You're offering to make French toast? Awesome. Yes, let's do that!"

Aiden takes Stiles to bed with him. The mattress is lumpy, but much softer than rugs on cement. Stiles feels too warm, and besides, he had that unplanned nap in the kitchen before supper. He can't stop wiggling around the bed. Aiden pokes him. "Cut it out."

But Stiles can't seem to stop all of his limbs from wriggling. If he presses his hands together, or hugs his upper arms to keep them still, his toes curl and swish around on the sheets, and his knees seem to be everywhere. Plus his nose itches.

Aiden says, "Settle down."

Stiles begs quietly, "Make me?"

"Sure." Aiden clamps down Stiles's arms with one arm over him, and his legs with a leg over him, and says, "Go to sleep." And Stiles does.

The next day, after French toast, Stiles asks to be allowed to clean the bathroom and scrub the kitchen vinyl. He finds Bubbles's grooming tools in a drawer. She lets him gently press on her feet to make her claws come out, and he trims the ends of any pointy ones, while Bubbles purrs and rolls around, making it difficult. He brushes her until her black fur glows, to make her look nice for her mistress.

On Sunday night, Erica comes home. She gives Aiden a kiss on the lips for hello, and squeals over how cute Stiles is. "Can I pet you?" she asks Stiles. She already has her hands on his cheeks. He vaguely remembers her petting his hair, back at Deucalion's.

"Yes, of course," Stiles answers. She smells good, and he likes her broad, toothy smile.

"Yeah, he's a friendly guy," says Aiden.

Aiden tells Erica what Stiles cost for only the weekend, and she's silent in thought for a long time. Then she says, "Well. Let me check my credit card balance." She taps on a computer tablet and bites her lip. "Honey, if I max this out we can afford him for the whole week. Don't you want a slave for a week? Wouldn't Stiles like it? You'd like that, wouldn't you, Stiles? I wish we could keep him forever."

They decide to call the vendor in the morning. Stiles won't know until then if someone else has already asked about buying him. If somebody has seen him in the catalogue and wants him, he'll have to go back.

Erica has found a treasure: Stiles knows how to file claws. She turns full wolf and he does her claws for her.

That night, Aiden and Erica make love in the bed with Stiles in it. He lies on his side with his back to them and listens to the small, sweet sounds of their kissing. Feeling them moving, listening to the noises they make and that the bed makes, takes his mind off the suspense about whether he gets to stay the week. It's easier to keep his body still and doze off when somebody else in the bed is moving, and talking, low.

In the morning, Stiles gets dressed and fixes breakfast. Erica puts on mascara. It seems she does that first thing, even before making important phone calls. But the very next thing she does is call the vendor. Stiles knows he's staying when he hears her giving her credit card number.

Erica and Aiden both have jobs this week: she has regular work, and Aiden has found something temporary. He heads out as soon as he hears that they can keep Stiles for the week. Erica tells Stiles that she hasn't planned on anything for him to eat during the day.

"I don't need—" Stiles begins, but Erica goes on talking over him.

"I'm going to call the Chinese place and have them bring you some take-out at noon. You only have to open the door and take it in." She blows him a kiss, which confuses him, and leaves.

Stiles gets right to work. He empties all of the kitchen cabinets and drawers, wipes them down and leaves them open to air. A few of the mugs and glasses have gathered some dust, so he washes and dries those.

He combs his hair and smooths out his clothes before he has to take in the food at noon. The delivery man gives him a big paper bag full of white boxes. Stiles takes it into the kitchen, opens each box, then panics. There's way too much here for it all to be meant for only himself. And he has no idea how he's supposed to eat it. Plate it? Straight out of the boxes? He's never had Chinese take-out. He doesn't know Erica nor her work situation well enough to feel brave enough to call her and ask. And if he doesn't eat, she might be offended. He calls Aiden. "I don't know how to eat Chinese take-out."

"It's easy. Pick one of the boxes that has meat and vegetables, whichever one you think you'd like best."

"There are a lot."

"Beef and broccoli," Aiden says promptly. "Put about half of that onto a plate and use about the same amount of rice from another box, eat them together."

Stiles let out a sigh of relief. "Which ones are the slave plates, please?" Over the weekend, he and Aiden ate pizza off of napkins, and Sunday night for supper Erica brought home reheatable deli containers. In the mornings, Stiles happened to eat his French toast out of the pan, after Aiden and Erica had theirs on plates. All of the dishes are mismatched, so it's hard to tell if there's a set meant for any special use.

"Um... sorry, we should have thought of this. See if there are any paper plates high up in the cupboard above the sink. Might have to stand on a chair."

Stiles already knows there aren't any paper plates, because he has everything from the cabinets spread out while the cupboards and drawers air. "Can I use a styrofoam cup, like the kind I had cider in?"

"No, you don't have to do that. Listen, buddy, I'm going to hang up now, but the next person that calls will be me, so pick up."

Stiles waits by the phone. Aiden calls back. "I'm coming home. See you in a few."

Stiles places some of the Chinese food on a ceramic plate for Aiden, and sets it in the oven to keep warm.

Aiden brings a package of paper plates, and Stiles gets fed. The beef and broccoli is very good. Aiden spends the afternoon with Stiles, and says that when Erica gets home, he's going back to work. He switched shifts with another worker, so that Stiles won't be alone again until tomorrow morning. Stiles feels relieved and horrified at the same time. It worries him to think that Aiden took time off of work for a slave, especially an expensively-rented slave. "I'm sorry I called you at work."

"I'm glad you did." Aiden drapes an arm casually over Stiles's shoulder, but when he brings his hand up as if to pull away, he rubs Stiles's temple pretty hard. Stiles touches Aiden's hand briefly before he makes himself pull back. What he wants to do is press Aiden's palm down harder on his temple. Aiden mock-wrestles him around the middle before he lets him go.

Stiles spends the rest of the afternoon and evening wishing that Aiden and Erica could buy him.

Aiden's temporary job is over in the middle of the week. He gets up early his first day without work and eats cereal on the couch in his boxers. "I need to go shopping to get some food in this house."

"Have a good time, Mas—I mean, sir."

Aiden slaps a couch cushion as if he just made a decision. "I'm marking you and taking you with me."

"Really?" Stiles looks quickly at Aiden, but then looks down and away and tries to concentrate on being quiet and not asking questions.

"We need to keep you safe for your dad, right? And you don't want to stay here all day by yourself."

Aiden showers with Stiles and marks him. Stiles bows his head to make it easy, but that's also a good way to hide how hard it is for him to control his expression. He might hear from his dad this week, _and_ he gets to at least pretend to be owned by Aiden.

Stiles sticks close to Aiden at the stores. The neighborhood has several small specialty stores: they go to an Asian market, and to a narrow, dingy place full of dry and canned goods, and then to a vegetable market on the sidewalk. Everyone knows Aiden at the stores. He seems really happy and grateful to get some temporary work for the next week, from the sidewalk-vegetable guy. The vegetable guy lets them take more food than Aiden can afford, because he can pay it back with work next week.

Aiden asks Stiles's opinion on the produce they buy, because Stiles is a trained cook.

Then they go to a butcher shop, and Aiden asks the seller to put the meat on Erica's bill. He seems more shy here, like he's not in here as often. The place is all shiny, tiled and fancy. Stiles looks at the displays and makes a sound in his throat, swallowing his words and gripping his fingers behind his back to keep himself from moving. Aiden says, "You want to help me pick out the best piece?"

Stiles nods. He unhooks one hand's worth of fingers from the other and points.

"We'll have that piece," Aiden says to the butcher, with more confidence than before.

Stiles is cooking supper when Erica comes home. She stops in the open doorway and sniffs, then sighs, then gives Stiles a big smile. Bubbles is watching Stiles cook, and lets Erica have a slow blink in greeting, but she won't leave his side. Aiden says it's okay to give Bubbles a little piece of plain beef for herself, which results in a lot of purring and contentment.

Stiles eats beef and garlic from a paper plate, kneeling on the floor. Bubbles is very good about letting him have his own supper, but when he's through she begs again. He rinses the seasoning off of a bit of fat and lets her have that. Erica says he's worth the whole week's rent for just that dinner. Stiles blushes. He wants to say that he's glad she's pleased, but for once he can't speak.

Aiden takes a call on his cell phone, in the living room. He's saying, "Oh, hey," into the phone, and smiling as he comes back through the doorway into the kitchen, toward Stiles. Stiles sidles out of the way at the sink where he's doing dishes, in case Aiden wants to reach into a cabinet.

Aiden says into the phone, "Better than that. I brought him home for a few days."

It's Stiles's dad on the phone. He jerks his hands out of the dishwater and grabs a towel.

Aiden goes on, "No, it's really our pleasure. Can you come by and see him? Oh... I'm sorry it couldn't be better timing. You can talk to him on the phone, at least. Here he is."

Stiles cuddles the phone by his cheek. "How are you?"

"Tired. Lot of stuff going on. Thinking of you all the time."

"Yeah, me too. I'm thinking of you all the time."

Neither of them says anything more for a minute, then Stiles sighs.

Dad says, "I'm going to take a picture and send it to you, you do the same for me, okay, son?"

Stiles doesn't know how, so Aiden and Erica help by taking a photo of him. Stiles worries: "Should I turn away so my scar doesn't show?"

"No, don't do that. He'll want to see the scar, sweetie."

Aiden looks at the photo of Dad. "Shannon's looking kind of thin. Sorry to see that. Used to be he could take me in a fight—I mean, when I was a lot younger. We could try to get that printed out for you."

"Don't bother. I don't mean to be rude, but please don't go to any trouble. They probably wouldn't let me keep it, since I'm still up for sale and I don't know where I'll be next. I'll just memorize it." And memorize it Stiles does. He runs into the edge of the kitchen table, and later stubs his toe on the leg of a chair, because he's staring at the photo and walking at the same time.

Stiles gets another whole weekend in Erica's apartment. The last night, in bed, he tries not to bother Aiden and Erica with his emotions, but his breathing gives him away. Erica murmurs, "Hang on, baby," to Aiden, and Stiles hears her kiss him. Then she rolls over by Stiles and holds his upper arm firmly. "What's wrong?"

Stiles takes a moment to feel her hand on his arm; the pressure calms him. Then he's able to answer, "Nothing. I'm fine." It's a lie. He misses Dad and he's homesick for Deucalion's house; he wishes Aiden and Erica could buy him, but he hopes Erica understands that he's as fine as he can be expected to be.

Early in the morning he sweeps the kitchen, and brushes Bubbles again. Erica wishes him the best, hugs him, thanks him for a nice week, and leaves for work.

At the last minute, Stiles begs Aiden to keep his letters safe. Sometime they're bound to be taken from him and destroyed. He'd rather part with them now. "If you don't mind the trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. I'll take good care of them."

Aiden drives Stiles to a sale venue he hasn't seen before, where the same vendor as last week meets them. Aiden ruffles Stiles's hair and says, "It's been a pleasure. If I had my pick out of all of Duke's slaves, I would choose you. You're easily the best one from his entire old house. Having you with us for a week made me feel rich."

Stiles refuses to end this week in tears. Besides, he needs to get his mind off of how _all of Duke's slaves_ includes his father. His mouth takes over. "That's funny, considering you'll be paying that week off for months."

Aiden speaks over Stiles's immediate apology. "Watch your mouth," he says fondly, giving Stiles a rough pat on the head and shoulder, and then he steps back. In a minute Stiles is undressed and gives him the clothes back, and Aiden gives him a last grin and leaves.

********

The sale hall has lots of yellow light bulbs, but it's dim. Stiles can see everything and there are no harsh shadows, but the feeble light makes him squint. The floor is covered by an old carpet with a big diamond pattern. It seems like everything is different shades of the same yellowish color.

The seller and some kid who's thinking of buying Stiles are talking about him. The vendor greeted the buyer by name, "Mr. Raeken", and Stiles is trying to remember why that name sounds familiar, and why it makes him feel oddly queasy.

The guy's a human, a teenager, dressed in hiking boots and a leather jacket. He looks at Stiles and his nose wrinkles up in distaste. "He's puny. You sure he's over thirteen?"

The vendor is sure of it. Stiles's papers have a birthdate.

"Even if he is," says the buyer—Mr. Raeken—"how can I be sure he won't turn?"

"He was bred at Deucalion's. Human parents."

Actually, Stiles was born at Master Duke's grandmother's place. He moved to Duke's when he was very little. He bites down on the inside of his lower lip to keep himself from correcting the vendor.

"I guess Duke's dead now," says Mr. Raeken.

"Maybe not," answers the vendor. "There are still a couple of open contracts on him, and a bounty."

"Well, I don't need the bounty, but I wouldn't hesitate to kill him if I saw him, except for one thing: he always had such an ugly coat."

Now Stiles remembers. "I hear you prefer black."

Mr. Raeken blinks when Stiles speaks aloud, then he rolls his eyes. "It's hard to train the attitude out of Deucalion slaves. If old Duke's guard slaves had been better disciplined, he might not have lost the house in the first place."

Stiles bursts out, "That's _not_ his fault!" and before he can duck and clamp a hand over his own mouth, Raeken gives him a hard cuff on the temple. 

"Shut up. Deucalion deserves whatever he gets."

Stiles thinks of what to say. He could stop himself. He says it anyway. "He gets my loyalty."

The kid kicks Stiles's feet out from under him and Stiles's ass hits hard on the floor. That old, rough carpet doesn't provide much padding. The vendor protests, "Hey!"

Stiles is scrambling up, when across the floor he sees his dad. He almost falls down again.

Mr. Raeken is talking. "Don't worry about it. I'll take him anyway. He can learn to keep his mouth shut. Otherwise I'll do him worse than the werewolf who clawed his face."

Stiles briefly turns his eyes to Mr. Raeken. "That's not what—" The vendor squeezes him hard on the shoulder. Stiles looks out from underneath his lashes and regains eye contact with his dad. Dad nods at him. The yellow light makes Dad look rumpled and haggard, and he doesn't carry himself quite as tall as he used to back home. Stiles plants his feet hard and concentrates on not running across the floor to hug him.

"I'll take these other two, also."

"I'll get their papers ready for you, Mr. Raeken."

Stiles keeps eye contact with his dad. He walks sideways while he's following his new master out of the hall, but then Dad disappears out the side door and doesn't come back, so Stiles faces front. But when he comes outside and blinks rapidly in the afternoon sun, there's Dad, standing where he's easy to see from the door to the street. In the sunlight, he looks neater, but there are still shadows under his eyes. He looks better when he gives Stiles a slight smile. Stiles shares a look with him for as long as he can.

Stiles and the other new slaves are taken to Master Theo Raeken's hunting lodge in the wooded mountains, where Stiles is put to work in the kitchen. Stiles soon feels as if he is constantly making sandwiches. Master Theo likes a quality sandwich.


	6. That Raeken Kid

********

Whenever Stiles says something inappropriate, Master Theo gives him a hard slap on the cheek, but that doesn't train Stiles's mouth to stop acting up. All it does is make him cringe whenever he sees the master coming. He's never mouthed off so much in his life.

One day when Theo smacks him, Stiles happens to have chapped lips, and the corner of his mouth cracks and bleeds. One of the other slaves stares at him. "Why don't you just keep quiet?"

"I don't know how anymore." Stiles remembers how good he used to be for Miss Cora. Well, she said he was good, anyway. Was she just being especially tolerant, or has he really gotten so much worse? Smart remarks just seem to appear around Master Theo. Stiles tries, or he thinks he tries, to behave. It's as if he looks the other way while his own mouth provides the backtalk all on its own. Besides, some of the ways he's been used to controlling his mouth are things that Theo doesn't like. Stiles isn't supposed to touch his thumb to each of his fingertips in turn, something that most people don't notice or, if they do, don't care about. Master Theo notices, and tells him to stop it, and then what is Stiles supposed to do to distract his mouth? He tries curling his toes. That works better sometimes, as long as he's wearing shoes and the movement can't be seen.

Master Theo hardly ever marks his slaves. Human masters usually mark their slaves to protect them from werewolves; humans can't smell the effect, but to a werewolf, a marked slave is off-limits. Master Theo doesn't seem to care that much about it. His hunting field assistant slaves get marked before a hunt, and occasionally, while he's at it, he lines up some of the kitchen slaves and pees on them. Most of the time he only marks the perimeter of the lodge, close to the ash fence.

When Master Theo is in a bad mood and some slave makes a mistake, he often says, "You better shape up or I'll put you outside the ash fence." All the slaves have been outside the fence plenty of times, helping with equipment or food in the field, but they're never _alone_ outside the ash fence. There are always armed hunters around.

A slave who's been with Master Theo forever tells Stiles, "He did it once. Everyone knows he'll do it again if he feels like it."

"What happened?"

"We had a slave who ran away. Master Theo and his hunters caught him, but they didn't kill him themselves. They drove him out into the woods and used him as bait. Didn't bother to bring his body back. Master Theo got a wolf, and had its hide mounted as a trophy."

Stiles hasn't seen the trophy room yet. He's not sorry to stay away for as long as possible.

One night, Master Theo is going to have a card game. The slave in charge of the trophy room has Stiles help him clean it before the guests arrive. "Never, ever touch the hides. I'll dust them myself if they need it. Clean everything else."

Stiles gathers cleaning supplies from the kitchen closet, carries his armload down the hall, and steps slowly through the double door into the trophy room. He tries not to see anything too clearly at first. He dimly notices mounts of all kinds, and some of them aren't wolves. He takes a step further into the room. All he has to do is clean it. He thinks he can avoid looking at the trophies, even if he dusts and polishes the wooden stands. He can look down at the gold vine pattern in the wool carpet the entire time.

There's only so long Stiles can manage this before he bumps into one of the mount stands. He looks up, apologizing to the inanimate object, and sees Mohan, from home.

Stiles has bumped into what would be the rib cage area in a living werewolf, and Mohan's head, facing sideways into the room, keeps on looking toward the double door. Stiles backs up farther. That is unquestionably Mohan's hide, but his eyes are too yellow. There should be flecks of green.

Stiles turns and walks quickly back into the hall. He can't do this room.

Theo's proud of having caught Mohan when Mohan was confused and possibly hurt, and when Kali had just been killed so violently. Stiles tries not to think about Master Theo lying in wait outside for Mohan while Duke's house was attacked. He's not sure how to be that angry with Theo without getting himself into huge trouble.

If Dad were in Stiles's place, he wouldn't say anything, he would do his job, no matter how he felt. If that room were Mohan's grave, Stiles could clean it and make it nice. He'll have to pretend the game room is a grave. He can handle cleaning a grave.

Stiles goes back inside and does Mohan's stand first. He wants to make it the nicest in the room, and spends a lot of time on the polished wood.

The slave who's in charge of the game room—his name is Matau—comes in with a stepstool, and gets up to dust the glass eyes of each wall mount with a Q-tip.

Stiles moves around to Mohan's wall side. Here, without the face and the wrong eyes staring at him, he has the bravery to look up again. He sees that the mount is mostly made out of Mohan's brown-black pelt, but some of Kali's is there, too, used as a patch to make Mohan's shoulders a shiny, ebony black. Stiles reaches out without thinking, toward the patch of Kali's fur. Matau says, "Don't touch that! Skin oils attract dust. Don't touch any of the hides."

Stiles keeps his hands close to his chest and circles the mount again. This time he takes a close look at Mohan's forehead, where there used to be light honey blond fur. Stiles sees the black paint easily because he knows where the real markings were, but it's not something a casual viewer would notice, and the effect is soft and realistic. This side's shoulder is also patched. Kali's fur is a different texture from her son's, but it has been cut to look like a shape that would naturally occur on Mohan's pelt, rather than cut to match exactly over his blond streaks. It looks almost as if Mohan grew two tones of black on his coat naturally. Stiles can see that it's well done, but he knows exactly how it's patched because he knew Mohan.

Stiles makes sure he hasn't left any smudges anywhere on Mohan's stand; he walks around it three or four times, looking closely. All he has to do after that is to polish the chairs and make sure there's not a speck of lint on the card table.

Theo's guests arrive, and the wall lamps in the trophy room are lit, making it look richer and showing off the mounts.

Stiles is in the room at intervals, making the sandwiches and drinks to order and carrying them in from the kitchen. Master Theo mentions that Stiles was a Duke slave.

A guest asks Stiles, "Did you know the wolf in the black hide?"

"Yes, sir," says Stiles. He doesn't know ahead of time that he's about to add, "I knew both of them."

Theo rakes his chair back and stands up. The guest takes a sip of his drink, undisturbed by Theo's sudden movement. He goes on: "Theo did say there was more than one black wolf killed, but one was too damaged to use."

Stiles answers quickly, heart pounding, "Well, as you can see from the patched hide, Mohan was a brown-black. Kali was more of a purple-black."

Master Theo smacks Stiles backhand across the cheekbone. Stiles sees it coming and leans back a little, but he doesn't cringe or wince this time.

"Kneel on the floor and shut up," says Theo.

Stiles kneels, and folds his hands.

A guest wearing a thick flannel shirt gets up and peers closely at Mohan's mount. "This is a pretty okay patching job, Theo. you have to tell me who your taxidermist is."

Matau handles the snacks and drinks and sandwiches alone. Nobody calls Stiles to get up from the floor. He thinks he might be being punished, in which case he should not move on any account; but if he's supposed to be helping instead of kneeling, then he's in more trouble than ever. Finally, Matau motions with his head that Stiles should help carry a tray. Stiles gets up with one fearful look at Master Theo. Theo gives him a brief glance and tells him to get up and help and keep his mouth shut.

One of the guests brought his own slave boy with him, and has him kneel in a corner during the card game. The boy leaves the room with his master when the cards are over. While Stiles is clearing the tables late that night, taking away the beer glasses, the boy slips back into the room and approaches him. "Are you Shannon Stilinski's son?"

Stiles starts to fumble the beer glasses and staggers, recovering the whole armload at once in a fearsome, clinking jumble. The other boy helps catch the whole mess, and nothing hits the floor. He helps Stiles redistribute the glasses in his arms.

"Yes," Stiles replies hoarsely. "Why do you ask?"

The other boy glances at the slightly opened half of the double door. Then he looks into Stiles's eyes. "He sends a message to you. 'Their slave; my son.'"

Stiles eyes the door, too, then whispers, "Thank you, thank you."

The boy goes noiselessly back to his master. Stiles takes the glasses to the kitchen. He hears Master Theo say goodbye to his guests, hears the trucks roaring off down the mountain. Then Master Theo's angry footsteps come down the hall, and he storms into the kitchen and grabs Stiles by the elbow and yanks so Stiles has to spin to face him. "If you ever speak a word about any of my trophies again, I'm putting you outside. I'll get somebody else to make my sandwiches."

Stiles is rattled, but he sleeps well that night anyway, soothing himself by thinking of the message from his dad.

The next morning, Stiles writes down his message, so it will look the way Dad would say it, instead of in the cautious monotone with which the other slave boy spoke. He prints on a scrap of paper: "Their slave. MY SON." He reads it back to himself until he cries, then he hides it in his bedding and reads it often for the next couple of days. Then he throws the scrap of paper into a fireplace and watches it burn up.

Stiles thinks about going into the trophy room without being told, just to make himself get more angry about what happened at Master Deucalion's, and the part that Theo had in it. Slowly, instead of returning to that room, he begins to indulge in a fantasy. He imagines Mohan curled up, alive, on a rug in the trophy room, dozing in the dim daylight sneaking between the curtains.

A few weeks later, there's going to be another card game.

Stiles helps Matau clean the room. It chills him the first time he goes back in, to see Mohan posed as before. He polishes, dusts, and picks at lint until everything is perfect. They close the door slowly and quietly behind themselves.

Matau won't go back in there until it's time to light the lamps. In the kitchen broom cupboard are some bottles of nail polish, for marking soap and water levels on buckets. Stiles slips one into his pocket, along with a clean toothbrush.

He goes to the slaves' bathroom and washes his hands and forearms, scrubs his fingernails, and washes his face. It reminds him of getting ready to go out and open gates for Miss Cora. He steals into the trophy room and creeps directly to Mohan's and Kali's mount. He goes around to the wall side, and places his clean, dry hand on Kali's largest fur patch. He knows it won't feel like her, but he has to touch. He runs his hands over the places where the texture of the fur changes from Kali's to Mohan's. Then he lays his cheek on the mount's stiff neck and wraps his arms over the back and across its brisket.

Stiles stands back and inspects Mohan's claws. They're nearly covered with fur. Stiles sneaks back to the kitchen and comes back with a pair of scissors. He apologetically strokes the lower foreleg of the mount, then pushes the fur back and up off of one claw, and winces as he snips the fur completely off. Now the claw is exposed. He does every toe, then cleans each claw carefully with the dry toothbrush. Then in the dim light he paints each claw hot pink.

He brushes up every strand of cut fur and holds them in his palm with his fingers loosely curled over them so they can't drift away. At the back kitchen door, he scatters the hairs in the yard. He imagines what Mohan's reaction would have been to having his nails painted hot pink when he was alive, and laughs.

Stiles then joins in the preparation for the evening in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes and tearing lettuce. He hears the first visitors' Jeeps and trucks pulling up to the lodge. He kneels on the kitchen floor and waits to be called.

But he doesn't get called. He listens, and eventually hears what sounds like the normal laughter of the guests joking around at the card game.

Finally Matau brings another, younger slave into the kitchen and has him start doing Stiles's job. Stiles is sorry to see that this kid is going to get into trouble; he's doing it wrong. But if Stiles is about to be killed, it might get the poor kid in more trouble if he's seen taking instructions from Stiles. So Stiles stays down on his knees.

Matau finally turns to Stiles. "You should run and hide. Maybe if you try to sneak into one of the guests' trucks or Jeeps, they'll think the whole thing is funny and protect you from him."

Stiles shakes his head. "I'm sorry." Dad always tried to help him keep his mouth in control, back at home. How ashamed and devastated Dad would be, if Stiles got himself killed by mouthing off to Master Theo. If Stiles gets put outside, it won't be because he mouthed off. If his dad is going to get the news that Stiles has been killed, he's going to hear that Stiles was doing something really bad, on purpose.

After the card game is all over, well after two in the morning, Stiles recognizes Master Theo's step coming down the hall. The long wait is over. Theo is done with guests for the night, and he never comes into the kitchen except to yell at people.

This time, Theo doesn't yell. He speaks in a normal tone of voice, without looking Stiles in the face. "I've had enough of you. I can get somebody else to make my sandwiches. I'm putting you outside this weekend." He leaves the kitchen.

Stiles gets up stiffly and goes to bed and curls up tightly with the younger kitchen boy. Stiles is chilled from kneeling in the kitchen more than half the night, and the younger boy who's been doing his job did, in fact, get smacked around a little for bad sandwiches, as used to happen to Stiles—though usually for his mouth, rather than for bad sandwiches.

Late in the morning, he finds out that Theo has a different hunt he wants to go on before he'll use Stiles as bait. Stiles has to wait three whole days to be put outside. He finds some comfort in washing dishes, and helping the inexperienced kitchen boy to get better at his job. Stiles teaches him exactly how thickly to slice tomatoes, and a few other things about which Theo is unusually particular.

The night before Stiles is to be put out as bait, Master Theo says he must sleep in a shed in the yard by himself, to take some of the scent of Theo's lodge off of him. It's chilly, and there's no floor, but Stiles doesn't mind it much, hugging himself and shivering; the dirt is kind of soft compared to the kitchen floor. What's terrible about it is trying to sleep alone. The shed is so dark Stiles can't see the walls, and he knows nobody else is in the dark with him.

All night, he remembers that he's going to die in the woods tomorrow evening, and that sometime soon after that, Dad will hear about it. In the morning, grey light seeps in through the crack between the shed walls and the dirt floor, the door is opened and lets in a square of dawn light, and Stiles forgets for a moment. He thinks that now he gets to go back into the lodge with the other slaves. But the person who has opened the door is a hunter Stiles doesn't know. The reason for the night in the shed alone comes instantly back to him.

They take a Jeep and drive a long, rocky way up and across the mountains, to a camp that some other slaves set up ahead of time in the woods. The trees and brush aren't as thick as around Theo's lodge, but the trees here are much taller. The camp has loose, big netting all around it, permeated with ash.

The hunters don't use Stiles right away. They make him kneel on the ground beside the Jeep he rode here in.

In the afternoon, one of the strangers calls Stiles. He supposes he has to listen to this hunter, because he can't see Theo anywhere. The hunter locks a collar onto him. It has a long, flexible antenna that sticks up behind his ear, and a radio box strapped to the front of it. He's really glad his dad isn't here right now, because he would definitely get himself killed trying to save Stiles's life.

Two hunters walk Stiles out of the camp. One of them is carrying a big bow, hanging from a sling across his shoulders. The other carries a small crossbow, and several guns. They have knives, too. When they begin walking, the light is orange and the sky is turquoise. As the sun sets, somewhere out of sight past the rocks and pines, the light becomes a hazy, pale yellow. Then for a brief while, the pale yellow becomes warmer and brighter.

"I think we're far enough out," says the one who's carrying the many guns.

Stiles doesn't mean to, but he begs, "Don't leave me."

"Not yet. You need a blindfold first." The hunter with the big bow loosely ties a blindfold onto Stiles. They continue for a little way, one hunter on each side of him, and Stiles keeps bumping elbows with them. Walking blindfolded makes him dizzy. He can feel the change underfoot when they leave the smooth dirt path for pine needles and twigs.

One of the hunters takes Stiles by one shoulder and a hip and spins him around. Stiles stumbles, and catches his balance against a rough tree trunk. He takes the blindfold off and throws it on the ground. Then he quickly picks it up again, in case a werewolf might track him by it, or in case he might need it for something. He twists it in his fists.

The hunters have already disappeared. It's not quite twilight, but in the woods the shadows are growing deep. Stiles listens desperately for the sound of human voices, in case he's close enough to hear the camp. He doesn't know whether any mountain ash grows in these woods, and he doesn't know how to recognize it. If he did, maybe he could find some and make a twig line around himself, to keep the feral werewolves away. He still has his blindfold balled up in one hand; he ties it above his elbow.

The hunters didn't take him far from the path before they left him. He knows he can't tell which direction he came from, and he might not know which way to take on the path if he finds it, but maybe he can find the path itself.

The evening chill seems to grow up from the leaves on the ground, and then to fill the space among the trees, covering Stiles's calves with cool, heavy air. Sticks and rocks dig into his ankles, but his heels are tough. He watches for dark pools in the leaves that might be depressions where roots have rotted away, leaving treacherous little drop-offs. He avoids low-hanging branches so he doesn't hit his head—and he runs his stomach straight into a sharp-edged, stiff branch. It pokes, snags and bruises his belly. Stiles touches the wound and rubs his finger and thumb together to check for blood. There's not much bleeding, only a lot of scraped skin.

For a moment, he's afraid that even a small scent of blood will attract wolves. Then he remembers that he's thirsty, hungry, tired and lost, and all of that makes him attractive to predators, even without blood. He stops stumbling forward and calls out loudly for help. The woods go totally quiet, and he does, too, heart pounding. He wonders if anybody would help him if they heard him, or if everyone knows that Master Theo is on a hunt and to leave the bait boy alone. He worries about mountain lions. What if wolves don't come, but some other animal gets him? Is it better to live through most of the night, or get it over with now? What if no wolves come—will he have to sleep alone in the shed again and again until he finally dies the way Theo planned?

When he starts moving again, his footsteps make noise just as before, but now he's afraid something might be sneaking up, so he stops often to listen. He can hear small animals skittering on the trunks of trees, or rustling in the undergrowth. He tries in vain to hear something larger.

The night deepens. Stiles keeps a hand out in front of himself to protect his face from branches he can't see, but even so he gets repeatedly slapped on the cheeks and temples. He thinks of crouching down, curling up, and staying there all night—but then he imagines being found that way by a wolf, curled up in a ball, and decides he'd rather be standing up.

Stiles notices his hunger. He'll probably never eat again. He begins remembering the treats from the concession stand at the park. He imagines the menu and chooses fresh cotton candy, which is really good—the leftover stuff at the end of the day is dense and sticky. He also decides on a burger with mustard and pickle, plus a huge orange soda, and two caramel apples.

"I don't want to die anymore," Stiles murmurs aloud. He shudders and hugs himself, and walks even more slowly than before, blinking fast and wincing, worried that a tree branch will hit his eyes now that he's not holding his hands out to protect himself. "I want my dad. I want to go home. I want Master Duke. I wish Aiden would come. Or Master Sorley—no other werewolf would dare attack me, then. I bet even Master Theo would be afraid of Master Sorley... while I'm at it, I want my mom. I want my mom."

Tree trunks stand out as solid black, and occasionally a white or pale grey rock appears. Other than that, the forest floor doesn't have details he can make out anymore; he can't see the drop-offs amongst the leaves. Stiles steps in one, and stumbles and falls, hard. It hurts dully, at first, but he's not badly damaged. Mostly he landed on spongy leaves and dirt. He lets his forehead rest on the chill ground for a minute before even trying to get up. He's reminded of how cold he is. He has already made up his mind to keep going all night, so he finally pushes up on his hands and knees and peers ahead before trying to stand all the way up.

A huge, black wolf is sitting not far in front of him, in a shallow depression between two trees. It flashes its eyes at him, then disappears.

Stiles drops back to the dirt and covers his head with his hands. He tries to take long, silent breaths. The wolf must know he's there. It was looking right at him.

Stiles tries to stand up, but he's shaking too much. All he can do is make tiny whimpering sounds. His nose is running. Suddenly the wolf is beside him. Stiles screams and instinctively jumps backward, but he meets a force which stops him. The werewolf is in half-shift, and has thrown one arm across Stiles's upper back. Stiles ducks to avoid it, and a hand grabs his forearm and lifts him up. Stiles screams again, and the werewolf clutches his mouth and chin, silencing him. The half-shifted wolf has turned into a tall, dark human form. "Stiles?"

Stiles struggles with believing that he's awake, and not imagining things. He believes that's the voice of Kali's older son, Tavish.

"Do you remember me?" It really is Tavish.

Stiles nods and Tavish takes his hand off of Stiles's mouth.

Stiles's mouth gets back to work immediately. "Your breath is awful."

"Ah, yeah. Never mind that." Tavish sticks out his tongue, then turns his head and coughs into the crook of his elbow. "I was eating carrion."

Stiles shivers. His skin is clammy from fear and cold. Tavish flicks at the plastic-coated radio antenna standing up behind Stiles's ear. Stiles's mouth is sticky and his voice is hoarse when he explains, "You weren't supposed to stop and look at me long enough to notice that's there. You're supposed to kill me. Then they follow the signal and know what general area you're in, after I've been killed. Then they hunt you and kill you."

"I know. I know these collars, and they have something in them so that a signal will go out if I break them off." Tavish looks over Stiles's shoulder, past him into the murky woods, as if he can see something there. He wraps Stiles up in a full-body, warm hug, and says in his ear, "Listen. I want you to do something for me."

"Okay."

"I'm going to go have a look at the camp. See what the hunters are doing. Wait here." Tavish pats Stiles on the back, then bounds away, turning from human to full wolf as he goes. The inky brush of his tail fades into the blackness of the forest.


	7. Night in the Woods

********

Stiles is afraid that a strange werewolf will find him, without Tavish's knowledge, and eat him. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm without walking around.

He takes up a handful of leaves. Some of them have rotted away into nothing but wet lumps, but he collects a small handful that are dry but not brittle. He occupies himself by trying to tear them to pieces without destroying the little veins. He wonders what Dad and Master Deucalion are doing right now.

It's a long time before there comes a presence beside him, a breath in his ear, and Tavish says, "You're good at that for someone who can't see in the dark."

Stiles lets his handful of leaves fall, and rubs the fingers of his right hand against his thumb to release the papery pieces. He reaches out, brushes Tavish's hand with his fingertips, then grabs his wrist. "Don't leave me again."

"Were you afraid?"

"Yes. _Yes_ I was afraid. What if they killed you?"

"You okay now? You're not cold?" Tavish warms Stiles up by holding him, which makes Stiles's feet feel colder by comparison. Then Tavish takes his hand and tugs gently. "Come with me. I need your help."

They walk at a pace slightly too fast for Stiles in his bare feet. Tavish tells Stiles that the radio collar around his neck is good for sending the hunters Stiles's direction, but not so accurate when it comes to telling how far away Stiles is. "If we move in closer to the camp, fast, they won't know how close you are right away."

Tavish's footsteps make no sound. The woods seem to get darker as they go, and Stiles keeps bumping into Tavish. Tavish grabs him up in his arms and carries him. After a long time, Stiles thinks he can see lights. Tavish creeps along, and finally lays Stiles down with only the faintest rustle. He gently tilts Stiles's head by the chin, coaxing him to hold it back at an awkward angle, so the tracking antenna behind his ear continues to point straight up, even though Stiles is lying on his belly. Stiles hunches his shoulders and supports himself on his elbows, fists underneath his chin. The small of his back aches.

He hears motion through the brush. At least two, maybe three hunters are coming toward him. He feels a broad paw press on his back. It means, _Stay down._

A distant, white glow from a lantern bobs above the underbrush. Closer to Stiles, someone is sweeping the yellow beam of a flashlight across the ground, making roots and chunks of dead leaves jump briefly into sight and creating long shadows from skinny saplings. When the light swings in his direction, Stiles can see that Tavish has disappeared.

Master Theo speaks, his voice aimed away from Stiles. "Shine the light over here." He raises his voice and calls in Stiles's direction. "Stilinski!" He must not be able to see Stiles, or he wouldn't yell so loud; he's not that far away.

Stiles hasn't thought through what Tavish's plan means. Is he bait for his own master? Somebody's going to get killed—at _least_ one somebody. He sits up. Three hunters are visible in silhouette. Master Theo sees Stiles and swiftly comes toward him. A black blur knocks Theo sideways. Stiles throws himself back to the ground. An arrow hits a tree not more than three feet from Stiles's shoulder.

There's crashing and rustling in the darkness where Tavish took Theo down. The other hunters shine the light in that direction, but Stiles can't see anything but leaves and tree trunks. It seems the hunters can't, either. The crashing and rustling die down; the men get their weapons ready and head for where the last noise came from. Stiles is alone on the ground.

He doesn't cry, but he comes close. The hunters go away, farther and farther, until he can't hear them at all. The light that was bouncing off of the leaves disappears. There are people talking, back at the campsite, but Stiles can't make out what they're saying. He could probably get there in the dark by following their voices, but he's too afraid to get up. Maybe the hunters will blame him for what happened. It is at least partly his fault. But if he doesn't go back to the camp, the hunters will assume he's dead, and they might leave the mountain without him. He tries to tell himself to get up and walk slowly in that direction, one step at a time, but he remains sitting on the ground. He's cold, that scrape on his belly feels bruised, and it stings. He sighs deeply.

He wonders whether Tavish is dead. It would be really stupid to go stumbling through the woods looking for him. But what if he's only hurt? Stiles should help him.

Some time passes before Stiles hears something alive coming toward him. There's no light shining around it, so it's not a human hunter. Stiles can tell after listening a little while that it's large and four-legged, stumbling and dragging. "Tavish?"

No answer. The dragging and stumbling sounds get closer; Stiles can hear long, pained wheezes and small gurgling sounds. Stiles sighs and quivers. He's too tired of this whole night to be frantic. If it's Tavish, then Tavish is hurt, and he's coming back to where he last saw Stiles, for help. So Stiles sitting tight is the right thing to do. If it turns out to be some other predator, it's hurt or weak, but if it wants to kill Stiles, he probably won't be any faster than it is—but he can run for the camp, try to beat it there.

When the creature sounds like it must be very close, Stiles grows surer that it must be Tavish, because he still can't see it, and only a wolf as black as Tavish would be invisible at this distance. He whispers, "Over here."

Tavish stumbles into dim view, staggers until his feet bump into Stiles, and crashes with his chest across Stiles's lap. Stiles can feel the vibrations of his wheezing across his legs.

"What do I do?" Stiles hovers his hands over Tavish's full-wolf shoulder blades, down his lower back, sweeps his hand back up and cups the fur of his cheek, and it's all gummed up with blood. Bubbles come from Tavish's nostrils and pop, making a continuous rustling sound as they hit the air. Stiles feels Tavish's neck and along his side for a wound. The blood mainly seems to be at his front end, but Stiles feels something rough and stiff in the fur on Tavish's rib cage. It's the ragged, broken-off end of an arrow.

Stiles wipes the blood on his hands off onto Tavish's fur, and tries to pull the arrow straight out. It won't move. He doesn't want to jiggle it and make things worse, and he's afraid he's already pulled too hard. While he's hesitating, Tavish goes quiet and his chest stops moving.

There's nothing to lose, now. Stiles gives the arrow a good yank. It moves, but it doesn't come all the way out. He wipes his hand off in Tavish's fur again, rocks the arrow back and forth, and this time when he pulls, the arrow comes free so suddenly that Stiles tips backward, but Tavish's weight on his lap balances him.

If Tavish isn't already completely dead, with the arrow no longer cutting him up inside, he should be able to heal on his own, as long as there was no wolfsbane on the arrowhead. Stiles dares to be hopeful about that. If it was Master Theo who got off the shot, the arrow will be plain; he doesn't like to use wolfsbane in the field.

Stiles sits with his legs pinned under the werewolf, grabs some skin and fur over Tavish's ribs and rocks his hand, hoping to be encouraging. The action becomes mechanical; his hand grows stiff. Tavish takes a rattling breath and then coughs, hard. Stiles is terrified that the people at the camp will hear the coughing. He bends his body over Tavish's muzzle to muffle him until the coughing stops. Tavish wheezes and snorts wetly, then his breathing evens out.

Stiles's legs have fallen asleep and his toes feel colder than ever. He can't ask Tavish to move; he squirms, drags himself on the heels of his hands, rocks his hips, and eases himself out from underneath Tavish. He sits with his feet tucked just under Tavish’s fur while the werewolf recovers. Stiles feels his own breathing slow. He blinks, bends forward, and tries to force himself not to fall asleep. But he dozes against his will. He only wakes when Tavish moves off, leaving Stiles's toes cold again. Before Stiles is awake all the way, he's afraid that Tavish has left him completely, that he could still get eaten by some other werewolf. But Tavish is still there, standing weakly on all fours, quivering, tongue hanging out, staring blankly into the underbrush.

He slowly turns to human shape and stands up as if he still hurts. Stiles clings to Tavish's legs. "Was it a wolfsbane arrow?"

Tavish shakes his head. When he gets his breath, he croaks, "Plain one. I'll live."

"I painted your brother's toenails pink. That's why they put me out here."

"Pink is a good color on him." Tavish might be snickering, but it's hard to tell because whatever sound he made turns into a harsh cough.

"Did you kill Master Theo?"

"Yes, Theo is dead. Thanks, Stiles. You've been a good boy tonight."

"Where are you going? Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. No, don't try to follow me. Go home, Stiles." Tavish turns him in the right direction. Stiles turns and watches him walk carefully and painfully away into the woods.

When Stiles gets within range of the lights from the camp, just enough to be able to see his own body in the dark, he can see how far up his arm Tavish's blood went, and spatter on his legs from the coughing. There's blood smeared on Stiles's side and belly from when he muffled the noise with his body. He tries to get some spit onto his hand to clean up with, and is reminded of how parched he is. He gets up a small amount of spit and rubs it on the messiest places, wipes them off with the blindfold, then buries it in leaves.

He stands outside the ash netting, too shy to ask to be let in, and too afraid to let himself in without permission, until someone sees him. "Stilinski! How are you alive? Get in here. Aren't you cold? Come sit in the truck."

Of course, Stiles is cold. The truck seat is cold, too. Somebody gives him a thick, scratchy blanket and he huddles in it gratefully, tucking a tail of it under his rear. A slave brings him a steel cup of water. Stiles gulps it so fast that it gives him a headache.

The camp is busy. The hunters and assistants appear to be getting ready to go out after the missing hunters. They haven't gone yet when the two who went out with Theo come back. "We can track it easier at daylight. Sorry to say it, but Theo's probably dead. He lost a lot of blood right there where it hit him. It left us alone."

The camp grows quiet. Somebody starts a pot of coffee.

One of the slaves gives Stiles a long sweatshirt, which hides most of the smears of blood and dirt he couldn't completely wipe off from the night before. Stiles receives a second cup of water and uses some of it to rub the drying stains on his legs. It's not long before everything turns from dark to grey-blue. The dawn seems even chillier than the dead of night.

The hunters set out in pairs. It's a long, hungry day at the camp, until somebody thinks to give Stiles a granola bar after lunch.

Hunters trickle in during the late afternoon. They know Tavish was hit with an arrow; they can tell by his blood trail that he was hit in the lungs. But they can't find him. They tracked him back to the spot where he fell wounded onto Stiles. One of the hunters calls Stiles over and asks, "Were you there when the wolf came back?"

Stiles pulls the sweatshirt sleeves down over his hands. "No, sir."

The hunter waves him off, but Stiles has barely turned away when the hunter calls him back. "Wait. Stand there."

Does the hunter have some way of knowing Stiles has lied? Is there obvious evidence on Stiles's legs, or on his face where he can't see? Is his shallow breathing giving him away? The hunter rummages in the cab of a truck and brings out a small, plastic device. He steps up to Stiles, and Stiles leans back slightly. The hunter passes the device under the collar, and it falls open. He tosses both collar and unlocking device in the truck and nods to Stiles. "You can go."

Stiles turns away and yawns widely in a mix of relief and nervousness.

One of the pairs of hunters arrives needing something they can use to stretcher what they found of Master Theo's body. There's some discussion as to whether he will fit easily into a big cooler.

The hunters stay at the camp an extra day and night, long enough to make sure they can't catch Tavish for revenge. Then they drive out to take Master Theo's body back home.

Back at the lodge, it takes Stiles over an hour to wash the grime from the woods off of his feet, and the blood from under his fingernails. He's gingerly washing the scrape on his belly when Matau finds him. "Theo's parents are here. Lie low—you don't want them to see you right now."

Stiles sits in the dirt next to the shed he spent the night in before the hunt, because he won't go inside of the shed. Nobody's likely to come out between the shed and the fence, so he faces the woods and plays with the thin grass and feels chilly. When dark falls it feels too much like being in the woods, even though there's an ash fence here. Stiles approaches the house warily and waits for one of the kitchen boys to come to the door to throw out mop water. Then he asks if it's safe to come in.

The boy knows that Stiles is talking about Master Theo's parents. "I think it will be okay, if you don't serve them anything personally. Don't answer any calls. Stay in the kitchen, and if anybody comes in, go out the back."

Three days later, Theo's parents leave, taking four of the hunting assistant slaves with them. They take Matau with them, too, and the favorites of Theo's mounts.

Without Master Theo there to stop him, Stiles writes a letter to Allison Argent's archery club, and secretly sends it along with Matau to mail. The one good thing that could come out of all of this is that Stiles's dad might find out what sale Stiles will go to, and be there to see him.

The rest of the hunting slaves are spoken for by friends and hunting partners of Theo's. Stiles and the other kitchen slaves, groundskeepers, and housekeepers rattle around in the lodge, feeling unprotected and unreal.

One breezy day, one of the housekeepers is gone and doesn't come back. Another kitchen slave asks Stiles if he wants to run for it, too. "I can get some wolfsbane and weapons from the stash, and we can go to Oregon. There's lots of free people there. They'd take us in."

"No they wouldn't." Stiles's voice sounds reasonable even though his hands are shaking and his emotions are all over the place. "They don't want escaped slaves. The slave catchers would come for us, and take them too."

"You sure you won't come with me? We'd have a better chance together."

"No. My dad wouldn't know where to find me."

"Okay. Good luck. Wish me luck, too."

"Don't go," says Stiles.

"Sorry, I have to go tonight before I lose my nerve. No time to change my mind."

Stiles sighs. "If you have to go... I'll make you a sandwich."

Even with only a few slaves left, the lodge eventually runs out of groceries. The remaining slaves won't touch the meat in the walk-in cooler without permission. Finally a kitchen slave boldly goes into Theo's den and finds a phone number for one of Theo's friends, and asks what they should do. "He says to sit tight, that he's sending someone to take us to a sale, and in the meantime, the oldest meat in the cooler is ours to do what we want with."

They prepare a weird and rich menu for the next week and a half. The lodge is ghostly empty, but smells like frying and roasting meat all the time, as if Master Theo will be serving game to guests.

Two trucks come up the mountain: one to pack out the rest of the meat from the cooler, and one to pack out the slaves.

Stiles gets hungry on the way to the sale. He really wants some bread or cereal after all of that meat. He spends half the morning fantasizing about roast carrots. Stiles and the other slaves are on display for most of the day. Dad doesn't show up, not even in the background. There's no message from him, either.

A scruffy-looking werewolf buyer looks them over quietly.

The vendor says, "These were cooks or something, for Theo Raeken before he died." He hands the werewolf a bunch of papers.

"I can always use kitchen people," answers the werewolf.

********

Stiles's new master has long hair and a scraggly, dark brown beard. He lives in a two-story, dark brown board house, and his three little houses for the slaves are all dark brown, too. He keeps a lot of slaves for the purpose of renting them out. They clean before and after big parties, set and bus tables, grill and cook, and perform any other tasks they're told to do.

He says, "My name is Master Ric, but you should just call me Master, because 'Ric' sounds ridiculous with 'Master' in front of it." He waves vaguely at the property. "Go ahead and explore."

Master's land is surrounded by tilled fields. There's a fence: only a couple strands of wire, four feet high except where it sags down to three feet. The water supply for the slaves is an outdoor faucet, which only gives a trickle even when the handle is turned all the way, so it's almost always running.

The first time Stiles steps into one of the slave houses, he hesitates and almost backs out the door. The dirt floor reminds him of the shed at Theo's lodge. He takes a deep breath and remembers that he's surrounded by slaves here, and that he'll probably never be left in one of these houses alone.

Supper is beans, two corn tortillas, and a small apple. This first evening, Stiles gets to eat his entire meal. But he sees what happens to some of the other slaves: a few big and mean girls and guys take what they want. Tortillas are hard to steal; they tear easily, and a stubborn slave might sit on them to protect them, or ball them up in a tight fist. Apples tend to disappear quickly, either hidden away somewhere, or crunched aggressively in the hearing of the one they were stolen from.

One of the big slaves isn't a bully. He's scarred over his shoulders and chest and carries a machete everywhere. He politely thanks the slaves in charge of food when they give him something to eat. Stiles watches which house this slave goes into at bedtime. He looks like the kind of guy even a feral werewolf wouldn't mess with. Stiles lies on his side and wiggles closer, backwards, until his heel comes up against the machete slave's calf. The man doesn't object, and Stiles falls into a dreamless sleep.

Breakfast the next morning is a half-cup of quick-cooked oats. Nobody bothers Stiles for his, and he doesn't see much stealing going on around him.

By lunchtime, Stiles can tell that the bully slaves are done sizing him up. They keep watching him, and they shove each other when they come near him; they're competing to see who gets to steal his food. He gets two big bites of his tuna fish sandwich, while one of those slaves grabs at his elbow. Then somebody snags the rest of his sandwich. Stiles tries pinching the thief, hard, but the guy ignores him.

It turns out that sometimes breakfast is two hard-boiled eggs instead of oatmeal. On boiled egg mornings, Stiles soon stops bothering to peel his, because if he takes the time to do that, some bully will have grabbed his breakfast from him before he gets a bite. He eats the shell. Some mornings, Stiles manages to throw his second boiled egg into a location where only he can see it fall. Then, later that day or the next morning, he tries to find it again before anybody else does, and eats it, quick.

If Master notices Stiles's food changing hands, he'll call, "Stilinski. Come over by me." Then he'll keep Stiles with him for a while, and if he has any leftovers from his own meals, he might give Stiles some. One time, he brings Stiles into the kitchen of his own big house with him and says, "These bananas are all brown. I'll never eat them all." He lets Stiles have three for himself.

Besides the food, which Stiles accepts meekly and eats greedily, there's the added benefit of being close to Master, and in his house, so that Stiles might pick up some of his scent.

Master doesn't get around to marking his slaves much. Once in awhile, he will thoroughly mark one slave, usually one of the big men he's owned a long time. As soon as that happens, everyone wants to be the marked guy's best friend. They all want to rub against him or be near him so they'll absorb the scent. Stiles can never get nearly as close as he wants to.


	8. The She-Wolf

********

Master doesn't bathe his slaves or dress them up before jobs. The person renting them usually washes the slaves before the entertainment, and might give them a uniform. But if they'll only be doing dishes or emptying trash, scrubbing up kitchen floors or washing tablecloths, sometimes the slaves don't get a bath or shower at all, and they wear the random clothes they wear at home. 

Other times, the person renting them might mark them for the night or the weekend. Master doesn't bother to re-mark them when they get back. He doesn't seem to notice when they smell like someone else.

One night, instead of the regular supper, Master makes some of the slaves clean off an old, battered, white picnic table, and carry it close to the porch steps. He makes a huge pot of split pea soup with ham, brings it outside, and personally ladles it up for everyone. When Stiles smells it and then gets close enough to see for certain what it is, he hangs back, hopeless. But Master gets mean when people try to crowd up and take more than one bowl. He yells, " _Everyone_ gets a half cup or I'm dumping it out on the ground." Stiles comes forward cautiously. One of the tougher slaves jostles him, probably out of habit, but Stiles gets hot soup anyway.

On occasional evenings, the master turns full wolf, leaps the sagging fence, and runs off into the fields. Since he's not fastidious about marking his fence line, the slaves are nervous until he comes back. He's always back by morning, lounging in a lawn chair set up in the threadbare grass in front of his house, and sending someone into the house to get him a bottle of beer at lunchtime.

Besides renting out slaves, Master makes his living by picking and selling mushrooms. He asks who wants to go mushroom hunting, then loads up the van with slaves, baskets, and knives, and they head out. He pulls off on the shoulder, and they hike to likely places for mushrooms. Master goes along with them whenever a new slave hasn't picked a particular kind of mushroom before. Machete Slave usually goes along, and besides hacking through dense brush, he helps to teach Stiles how to identify mushrooms. Machete Slave's given name is Reed, but Stiles privately thinks of him as Machete Slave.

Anyone who goes picking gets a tomato and cheese sandwich for lunch, which is easier to hold onto when there are fewer bullies around than at home; and in the evening when they come back, the Master hands each picker a little bag of peanuts. Since Master hands this out personally, sometimes Stiles is able to camp out near him and eat all of the peanuts without having to give any up. Everyone, whether they picked or not, gets mushrooms for supper. Master sautees them in butter.

The next day, Master takes a couple of the handsomest or prettiest slaves, and drives away to sell mushrooms.

On one of the mushroom picking trips, Stiles becomes captivated by a cluster of small flowers. The flowers are climbing down the side of a rock, looking as if they're all happily going somewhere together. The center of each one is creamy white, with lacy, soft-looking veins shading up from the bottom into a bright purple. The top half of each petal is solid purple. In the flower's white center, there's a little piece that sticks up, and its star-shaped top is purple, too. The younger, half-opened buds are magically snow-white cups, sending tiny threads of that white up into lighter magenta color than the purple of the mature, wide-opened blossoms.

Somebody yells at him, "Keep up, Stiles! It's not safe to be alone out here."

He comes back to the van late that afternoon with the other slaves, with only a few mushrooms in his basket. Master asks, "Did you have to throw a lot out? Did you pick some that were poisonous? You can always show me what you found, if you're not sure."

"No," admits Stiles. "I looked at flowers for a long time." He ducks back, waiting for a blow, though so far he's never seen Master hit anyone.

"There are worse pastimes," says Master. "Never mind."

At home, Stiles goes to retrieve a hard-boiled egg that he threw into some grass at breakfast to hide it, and sees a black, jowly cat trying to run off with the egg. The cat is trying to fit the whole thing into its mouth. Stiles stands back and watches; the cat paws at the egg, rolling it unevenly through the grass. Then it tries to chew the egg with the side of its mouth, but it can't make any headway on the shell.

"Here, kitty." Stiles moves forward to help. The cat hunches down, and when Stiles continues to approach, it goes off at a slinking run for several steps, then turns and looks unpleasantly over its shoulder. Stiles invitingly taps the egg on a rock.

Austin, the bully that Stiles hates medium-most—not the worst, but not the least bad, either—is attuned to the shell of a hard-boiled egg breaking. "Hey, Stilinski!"

Stiles grimaces. The cat looks in the direction of the yelling and crouches down in the grass with only its ears visible.

Austin saunters over, holds out his hand and flicks his fingers in a _gimme_ motion. Then he follows Stiles's gaze to the ears in the grass and says, "Aw, let the kitty have it."

"Here, kitty, kitty," they both call. It won't come near until they've peeled most of the shell off and gently tossed the egg several feet away. Then the cat moves in a hunkering, fast walk over to it and begins gnawing, twitching its tail. When the egg is gone, the cat noses around in the grass for more.

"Want to hold him?" Austin asks Stiles.

"Do I want to what?"

"Hold him. Want me to catch him?"

"I'd like it if you could, but he's not tame."

Austin strips off his shirt and tosses it over the cat, then throws himself across the grass, landing on his elbows and chest with his arms around the cat and his hands tucking the shirt underneath. He gets up on his knees and and scoops the cat up like a bundled baby, flipping it onto its back in his arms. The cat squalls and yowls. Its ears are perfectly flat, like thick paper folded into triangles. Austin unwinds the shirt, keeping the cat secured in the crook of his arm, circling its back legs with his thumb and forefinger. "Here." He pushes the cat into Stiles's arms. It has chunks of shaggy undercoat sticking out past its black fur, and is shedding in every direction. Austin says, "You have to not care how mad they get. I had a mistress who used to ask me to catch trap shy feral cats so she could give them medicine."

"Um, thanks. Thanks." The cat flails and moans, but it barely sticks its claws out—only enough to get purchase in the front of Stiles's shirt. Stiles holds on tightly at first, because the cat feels muscular and it seems to be looking for an opening to leap away. Then Stiles tries scratching it behind the ear. He rubs a knuckle over the bone behind the shell of the ear. Meanwhile he talks. "One of my old mistresses has a cat named Bubbles. This cat is nothing like her, other than being black, but a different color black. Even if this cat was all brushed out, I don't think he'd be as black as she is. Bubbles is friendly and happy and healthy. She likes me. I know she'd remember me."

Austin picks and shakes grey undercoat fuzz off of his shirt and puts it back on. As Stiles pets the cat behind the ear, there comes a sound like a bubble in a pot, then a reluctant, brief purr. When Stiles lets the cat go, it bounds to the fence line, then slinks off in a furrow in the field.

********

One early morning, Master sends anyone who wants to go along on a picking expedition to some tree lines on another property. It's close enough that the slaves can make the trip in one day without the van. The pickers set out right after breakfast and walk for a couple of hours, mostly sticking to the edges of cultivated fields, but when they come to a marshy place they have to cross it. They try to jump from hummock to hummock, but they go in ankle deep anyway, more than once. Stiles stops, sunk halfway up his shins in the marsh, to observe a black snail sticking to a blade of grass, until somebody shouts at him to get a move on.

The marsh turns into spongy, grassy ground, with shade trees letting strips of sun through. One of the girls calls, "Hey, Reed, there's a bone here." Stiles looks where she's pointing, and there's a white streak in the mounded bunches of grass.

"Deer leg?" asks Machete Slave.

The girl stares at it for a moment. "I don't know." She backs away from it. "I don't know. It looks like a people leg."

In the meantime, the rest of the group is moving on ahead of them. They come straggling back when they realize that Machete Slave has stopped walking.

They all poke through the bowed, matted grasses, trying to prove one way or another whether the leg bone is human.

Someone yells, "Hey! This is a skull. A human skull."

Everyone crowds around, and Machete Slave carefully pokes and separates the grass from the skull with the end of his machete. The spine is still attached. There's some pink around the edges of the bones. Machete Slave gives the skull a small kick that barely moves it. "Mushroom-picking alone. Stupid." His words are rough, but his voice sounds sympathetic.

The picking is good in this area, so they don't go home right away, even though they're all spooked. Stiles keeps so close on the heels of Machete Slave that he keeps running into his back and Reed gets frustrated with him.

At home that afternoon, they tell Master what they found and where. He says he'll call the local farmers, in case they're missing anybody. The mushroom supper is sober that evening.

Stiles sits up most of the night, trying to keep watch. Machete Slave sleeps, so Stiles supposes it must be okay, and occasionally he dozes off sitting up, but he won't allow himself to lie down. He listens hard, but isn't sure what he's listening for. A werewolf's footfalls on the ground outside the house would make barely any noise, certainly nothing a human could hear over the sound of other slaves breathing.

********

Stiles often gets picked for a job when the customer wants somebody to wash dishes, but he's almost always passed over when they want someone to wait tables. It's the scar. It doesn't look good. The other thing that doesn't look good is Stiles's habit of flinching, which he picked up at Master Theo's.

Stiles is getting tireder all the time. The days seem long. It gets harder and more painful to stand while washing dishes on rental jobs. Running around setting tables or setting up hot buffets feels like more work than it used to. He knows he's skinnier than he was when he came to Master's.

Still, Stiles looks forward to being rented, because he knows he'll get good leftovers at the jobs.

One evening when Master has gone running somewhere, Stiles is standing by himself in the yard. He sees two vague shapes in the twilight, out in the field. On a second look, the shapes become jogging, full-shift werewolves. Stiles can see the motion of their shoulders, and their grey legs reaching. He watches them, expecting them to continue past the property and disappear at the tree line. But they don't. They stop opposite the midpoint of Master's fenced place, raise their heads, and prick their ears. They look one way and the other, then come at a cautious pace toward the fence. Stiles doesn't move and doesn't make a sound. He wonders if these could be the wolves who ate that lonely mushroom-picker in the woods.

The wolves pick up their pace to a purposeful trot. They're facing Stiles, bobbing their heads as if gauging distance over the sagging wire fence. Just as they reach it, they fix their cold yellow eyes directly on Stiles.

One of the wolves hops the fence. The other hangs back. The one who jumped, a she-werewolf, comes right up to Stiles as he stands frozen; she stops a couple of feet in front of him, stretches her neck out and again bobs her head as if considering him. She reaches out with her jaws parted and bites down on his hand, too hard, but not hard enough to break the skin. It feels as if she's checking how much force it would take to crush his bones. Stiles does not try to pull his hand back. The she-werewolf gives a tug.

"No." Stiles's voice is wavery. He doesn't know who he's talking to—it's not as if this werewolf is going to listen to him. "No, I don't want this!"

The other strange wolf, outside the fence, is watching them and licking his chops. The evening light is dimming. Now there are other slaves moving around the corners of the houses. Stiles is too afraid to raise his voice, but he says, low, "Help."

The she-wolf tugs again, and it hurts Stiles's hand badly enough that he's forced to take a step in her direction. His voice is firmer now, though high-pitched. "You can't do this to me, I don't belong to you!"

Machete Slave is flanking the she-wolf, with a machete, of course. Somebody else is hefting a two-by-four and coming up behind her. Stiles hears one of the girls call for Master.

Machete Slave and the slave with the two-by-four haven't snuck close enough to do anything when Stiles cries out to warn them: the other wolf, who was waiting beyond the fence, drops his back end and gives one half-decided hop, then makes up his mind and jumps all the way over. Machete Slave turns to face that wolf.

At the sound of Stiles's warning cry, the she-werewolf's lips ripple in a snarl. She moves her hold up his arm, trailing saliva all the way, then lets go of his arm, grabs his leg and pulls. Stiles yells at the pressure but stays upright. She yanks again and he falls, and one of the other slaves screams. The she-wolf clamps her jaws just above Stiles's ankle and drags him toward the fence, back the way she came. Stiles tries to dig into the ground and hold on. The slave with the two-by-four hits the werewolf hard on the hip, but she doesn't let go; she holds on tighter, and gives an angry whine around Stiles's ankle. One of the other slaves grabs Stiles's hand.

Master comes tearing across the yard, growling and screeching, hackles way up and spiky. He snaps at the she-werewolf's flank. She drops Stiles, hunches her shoulders and stares at the master. Then she runs away, fluidly leaping the fence.

With Master there, the slaves don't hesitate to press in on the other strange werewolf, yelling and shaking weapons at him. He flattens his ears and runs back and forth along the inside of the fence, then crouches and growls at Master. Master rushes him, and he gives up and pops over the fence. Master chases the two of them for a short while, then comes jogging back.

Stiles's hip and ankle bone hurt, and his arm is going to bruise. His hand is wreathed in deep dents. The other slaves let him wash his leg and arm in the trickling water supply without getting in his way. He wishes Master would mark him, but that doesn't happen.

Stiles limps into one of the little houses and sits on the floor. One of the girls follows him into the house and gives him consoling pats on the back for a long time.

Stiles holds his head in his hands and whispers, "I'm never going to see my dad again."

When the others in the house all go to sleep, Stiles sits with his hip bumping up against Machete Slave, hugs his own knees and mentally tells himself stories. He imagines that Erica has been promoted at her job, and she finds out where Stiles is. There's a huge party at her job for her promotion, and Stiles is chosen to help set up the buffet. It's a fancy workplace, so he's bathed and in a nice uniform, but, conveniently, for this occasion nobody has marked him. As soon as Erica sees him, she gives him a tight hug and rubs her scent all over him. Now that she's rich, Erica has the money to buy Stiles, and takes him home with her and Aiden forever. They both mark him as theirs and then they have pups and Stiles takes care of them and cooks for them all.

The problems with this story are that, one, it makes Stiles depressed to know it's never going to happen. He needs a more realistic fantasy. And, two, in the story he only waits, while Erica finds and buys him. He should do something for her, too. Still, the moment when she sees him, smiles and hurries to him, holding her arms open, is nice to imagine.

The next day at dawn, the master gets around to urine-marking the fence line, more or less. After that, the strange wolves can be heard howling in the distance. They both have high-pitched, crying voices. They howl off and on for several days and nights, but they don't come back.

Stiles improves vastly upon his mental bedtime story when it occurs to him to make Aiden have amnesia. This gives Stiles a chance to help: he imagines that he works the grill at a music festival. He sees Aiden, who wants to order a chicken sandwich but is lost and has no money, and can't remember his own name. Stiles identifies him, and tells the boss to call Erica Reyes. "Call her to come and rescue Aiden." _Call her to come and rescue **me**_. Erica arrives, at which point Aiden, seeing her with Stiles, recovers his memory, and they both embrace Stiles. This is the new version that he tells himself every night.

He goes along mushroom picking once after the night of the she-werewolf, thinking that even though he'll be afraid the entire time, a tomato and cheese sandwich will be such a nice treat that it'll be worth it. But he can't get on his knees and carefully cut mushrooms; he keeps jumping up to turn around and scan for werewolves. Lunch is good, but he's almost in tears from anxiety by then, and his legs ache from tension at the end of the day. He lets one of the girls who didn't go along have his bag of peanuts.

Stiles worries about how long it's been since Master marked the fence, and tries to believe that Machete Slave could fight off a werewolf if he had enough warning. He thinks that if he watches for feral wolves, and sits near Machete Slave at all times, then he can warn him, and be protected by him. But Machete Slave sits out in the open all the time, and Stiles gets exhausted, trying to keep watch all around himself.

Machete Slave spends a lot of time on Master's porch steps, sharpening mushroom knives and boring tiny eye holes into peanut shells to make them look like ghosts. Stiles finds a spot under the steps where he hopes he'll be inconspicuous. Now, whenever Master turns wolf-shaped and leaves the place, Stiles hides there. He could be cornered, he knows that, but what could he do in the open? Run?

"You aren't picked to go out often, are you, Stilinski?" the master asks him one day.

"No, Master."

"I think I might sell you. You have that kitchen training certification, and someone with permanent kitchen work might take you. I think the guy who sold you thought that all kitchen boys are the same."

********


	9. Peacock Plates

********

Master takes Stiles to a consignment sale. The big van feels strange when Stiles is the only passenger. They meet the vendor, who has other slaves already loaded in a different van, and adds Stiles to them. Stiles left his clothes back at Master's place, and most of the other slaves are naked, too. He's worried that he'll be the only one who hasn't had a bath, but some of them have dirt on their feet, and unwashed hair, which makes him feel a little better.

"Good-bye, Stilinski. You've been a good boy. Thanks for all your hard work."

"Good-bye, Master."

The sale won't start until the next morning. The slaves spend the night in the parked van, where the vendor can easily guard his merchandise from thieves. Stiles's throat is sore and he has a case of sniffles coming on. He leans his head on a stranger's shoulder and somebody else leans on him, tired human dominoes.

********

So, Stiles finds himself in a sale barn again. The sale is dirty. Even a human nose can tell when all the humans in a building are scared or depressed.

Stiles is wearing shackles. He has a human vendor this time, and humans never know for sure whether they can catch a slave who runs, so they shackle them when they don't want to watch them every minute.

Stiles imagines Aiden coming into the sale, all dressed up and rich, but that means that Aiden must come over and save him by purchasing him, and Stiles has nothing to offer Aiden. In comparison to fantasy Aiden, real-life Stiles is weak, disgusting and filthy. So he adds back in the element of Aiden being amnesiac. Then, Stiles can remind Aiden of who he is, doing him a huge favor and being a hero, and _then_ Aiden can buy him and save him.

The vendor has a table and chair. The slaves sit on the floor. When Stiles sees buyers coming he gets up into a more respectful kneeling position. He's given up hope of ever seeing his dad again, but his eyes still look at every face at the sale as if he has hope.

He notices two werewolves together, one of them dressed way too nicely for this sale. The other is in blue jeans and a rumpled white T-shirt. The fancily-dressed, slightly older one has the rumpled wolf by the hand, and is pulling him briskly along, not stopping to really look at any of the slaves. The younger one is letting himself be dragged, keeping his eyes on the floor. Stiles is near a back corner of the building, so they're coming in his direction, as they walk past all the slaves who are standing against the long wall.

Two of the other slaves up for sale are discussing the well-dressed gentleman. "That's Peter Hale. Wonder what he's doing in a place like this! I've seen some of his slaves, and they're basically perfect."

Another slave scoffs, "All the Hale slaves are perfect." Stiles turns to look timidly over his shoulder at him. He's the kind of slave who looks as if he could be perfect. He looks haughtily down his nose at Stiles. Stiles turns away and wrings his hands. The murmuring conversation lets Stiles know that the younger werewolf is Derek Hale. That's the one who got kidnapped by Kate Argent.

The other slaves stop talking because Masters Peter and Derek are getting close. Stiles remembers to straighten up and kneel presentably. He risks a glance up to see if they're looking at him. Derek, who has been staring at the floor until now, is also looking up, and he looks right at Stiles. He has a scowling face, dark hair and angrily expressive black eyebrows. He looks into Stiles's eyes and his frown gets deeper. Stiles tries to look politely away, but can't at first; he just stares.

For a fleeting moment there's a startled look on Derek Hale's face, then he looks worried. Then his dark eyebrows draw back down. He growls, "That one."

Stiles finally manages to look respectfully down at the floor, and then he hears what Derek has said. _Me? Does he mean me?_ Stiles hunches his shoulders. He tries to relax himself by assuring himself that Derek Hale can't possibly be intending to buy him; he must be referring to another slave. He sneaks a glance up again, and Derek Hale is frowning at him.

Peter Hale lets go of Derek's hand and steps forward. Stiles feels a light tap from Peter's finger on the back of his shoulder. Peter speaks clearly and impatiently to the vendor. "Dress him. I want to see his posture, and you can't expect him to stand up straight when he's filthy and has no clothes on." The seller throws a shirt over Stiles's shoulders and Stiles starts to stand up straight and push his arms through the sleeves. Both of the Hale wolves are staring intently at him, so he submissively ducks his head and one shoulder sideways and down, holding the shirt in place at the throat, only half-wearing it.

Peter steps back and looks at him for a moment. Stiles scrambles the rest of the way into the shirt. He's sniffling, and has no way to wipe his nose. He tries to secretly use the heel of his hand. Peter Hale hands him a soft handkerchief. Stiles tries to murmur politely, "Thank you," but his voice comes out as a whisper. He cleans his nose and wipes his hand and then balls up the handkerchief in his fist. It's too gross to hand back to Peter Hale.

Peter touches Stiles appraisingly. He feels his ribs and looks at his legs and feet. He lifts Stiles's foot and bends his ankle. Stiles leans on him without meaning to.

Peter gently puts his foot back down and pushes Stiles's sleeve up, even though he could have looked at him all over more closely when Stiles was naked. He turns Stiles's arm and looks at that old scar from the tree branch. Stiles knows that it doesn't look like a claw or tooth mark. "What's this?" Peter asks him.

"Tree branch," says Stiles.

"Whipped with it?"

Stiles shakes his head. "I climbed a tree."

"Trying to escape?"

Stiles takes several breaths as if he just ran a long way, his stomach suddenly tight.

Peter is waiting with his hand on Stiles's arm. Stiles finally says, "No. Playing in a tree."

"Whom were you with then?"

"Deucalion."

Peter seems pleased. "Okay, Derek, you can have this one."

"I already decided on him."

"You may have got a better one than I thought."

"I already made up my mind. You wanted me to make up my mind. Let's get out of here."

"We're going." Peter is taking cash out of his wallet.

The vendor motions for Stiles to give the shirt back to him. In trying to stand straight and look submissive to the werewolves in front of him, and at the same time work his arms out of the sleeves, Stiles manages to trip over his own shackle chain, even though it's short. He tumbles down onto one hip with the shirt half off. The vendor leans over and strikes him hard on the side of his face. "Stand up!"

"Now, now, we've already decided to take him." Peter reaches toward Stiles to help him up. Derek Hale comes roaring past him and Stiles ducks out of his way and falls sideways again. Derek has gone right past Stiles at high speed and cuffed the vendor hard enough to send him flying backward. Peter takes hold of Stiles's wrist and supports him as he tries again to get up. Derek is staring down at the vendor with flecks of foamy spit at the corners of his mouth.

Stiles dropped Peter's soft handkerchief when the vendor hit him. He tries to look for it, then remembers how gross it was after he used it, and lets it go.

Peter snaps the shackle chain with his hands, then sets some cash on the vendor's table. "Derek," he says quietly, and Derek turns around, eyes flashing and face blank.

Derek grabs Stiles by the wrist and hauls him toward a small door in the back wall of the barn, propped open to admit daylight. Peter steps quickly to catch up. "We don't have his papers."

"Get them later," growls Derek.

Stiles is thirsty, his head is throbbing, his wrist is starting to sting and his fingers feel numb as he stumbles along behind Derek Hale.

"This door is nowhere near the car," Peter complains.

"It leads out of the fucking building." Derek pulls Stiles through it and Stiles blinks and winces in the sudden brightness.

"Derek. I don't think your new slave can walk so far. I'll call the driver to bring the car around."

"No. I'm not waiting." Derek slings Stiles over his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him. Stiles tries to protest that he can walk as far as they want him to.

The car arrives. The driver opens the rear door, and Derek and Peter get into the really clean back seat with Stiles between them. Peter tells the driver, "Take us—where, Derek? The clinic or your place?"

"Home," says Derek. "He can see Deaton another time."

Derek is squeezing Stiles in one arm and alternately scent-rubbing him with his palm, and inspecting his hair, ears and neck with his other hand. He wrinkles up his nose. "He's filthy."

"What did you expect from a place like that?"

What that other, potentially perfect slave said about all Hale slaves being perfect makes Stiles nervous. He wonders if the Hales are the kind of masters who give you a grace period when you're new. Maybe he'll work outside—maybe even live outside, with the way he must smell right now. If he does live in the house, once he gets a bath and is more presentable, perhaps he can try to mix in with the other slaves and won't have to be as perfect. Derek Hale must have lots of slaves.

Derek takes him firmly above the elbow; Stiles feels a pull, and although he's still thirsty, his fingers are not numb, his heels feel fresh and don't ache, the stinging and pounding on his face and in his sinuses fade instantly. He leans a little into Derek Hale.

********

The car pulls up smoothly in front of a tall, white brick apartment building. Peter tells the driver, "I'm going up with them. Wait a minute."

They go in past the doorman, who greets Peter and Derek by name, but only Peter nods back and says, "Hello." Derek stalks in, staring straight ahead, and holding onto Stiles by the elbow. When they enter the lobby, Peter seems to steer Derek across it, with a hand on his back. Derek doesn't look at anyone nor seem to see anything until they get to the elevator, where he punches a button and then frowns at the seam between the doors. Stiles hears the hum of the elevator working before the doors slide open. Riding up in the elevator is a weird, vibrating, swoopy feeling.

Derek Hale's apartment has its own long, silent hallway with plain walls and elegant crown molding. Derek's frown and his grip on Stiles's elbow soften as he unlocks his door. He nods to Stiles to go ahead inside. The door leads directly to the kitchen. The place is empty. There are are no other slaves to tell Stiles what to do. Maybe they're out running errands. Stiles eyes the faucet over the sink thirstily. Derek seems to notice, because he opens a cabinet and fills a glass, and hands it to Stiles. Stiles gulps the water without thinking to pay attention to where in the cabinet the glass came from.

Derek switches on some lights, which seems to warm up the kitchen, and puts an arm around Stiles's shoulder. "You can go, Uncle Peter. I want to mark him."

Peter warns Derek, "Be careful with him. Don't feed him too much. Better be extra cautious until the doctor tells you what to do."

Derek nods solemnly.

"Stiles." Peter holds out his manicured hand for Stiles to shake. "Welcome to the family."

********

Derek guides Stiles through a neat bedroom, past a big bed with a tall, dark wooden headboard. "Um. Here's the bathroom, through here."

The bathroom is huge. The shower is long, with transparent sliding doors, and small, white square ceramic tiles.

"You can get in... I'll grab you some sweats to put on when we're done. We'll get you some real clothes later, or in a few days or something. You'll be my personal slave. I guess."

"Master, I—I—I used to be a gate boy. That's all the personal slave training I've ever had."

"I'll train you." Derek sounds uncertain. He darts back into the bedroom.

Stiles steps onto the cold tile and waits.

"Sorry, sorry for taking so long." Derek puts a wad of sweatclothes on a basket next to the toilet, steps into the shower and turns on the water, all without looking at Stiles. Stiles is getting a good look at the side of Master Derek's face. The dark hair over his ear looks soft and fuzzy.

Derek begins by washing Stiles all over, starting with his hair. Stiles stumbles once in a combination of dizziness and exhaustion when Derek turns him around to scrub his back, but Derek catches him easily and holds him upright.

"How do you usually do this?" Derek asks. "Do you get down on your knees? Are you too tired for that?"

Getting on his knees is much easier than standing. Stiles decides to take the question as a suggestion to kneel. Derek helps him down by holding one hand. "I'm sorry, I'm out of practice. I don't have any other slaves."

Stiles is _Derek's only slave_. He has to live in the house with Derek, and do all the things Derek needs done, and look good and be quiet while doing them. Stiles is going to have to be perfect all by himself. He hopes wearily that when Derek sells him, he makes a big deal about it so Dad might hear about it and be able to see him at the sale, maybe even touch him.

Master Derek urine marks him and rinses that off with water. He dries Stiles with an enormous cotton towel, then takes a sniff of the bend of Stiles's neck where it connects to his shoulder, and seems satisfied with the effect.

Stiles pulls on the old sweats, and rolls up the cuffs on the shirt and the pants so he can see his own fingers and not step on the pants with his heels.

"I know you're tired," says Master Derek Hale. "We'll have supper quickly and call it a night." He puts two dishes on the counter. They're glazed a gorgeous Egyptian blue with darker blue edges, and hand-painted with peacocks. The unusual glaze and the prettiness suggest that these are the kind where you can never find another matching one to buy, if you break one. Stiles is afraid that he's too tired to be handling dishes like that.

Master Derek says, "Tonight, I'll serve you. I'll train you tomorrow."

Then he tells Stiles to sit in a chair at the kitchen table. He even gestures at it, so Stiles is sure he's not misunderstanding. Stiles stares stupidly at the chair. "Sit in the chair," Derek repeats. His voice is gentle and low, but there is a thread of impatience creeping in. Stiles sits in the chair.

Derek microwaves two portions of chicken noodle casserole and places one before Stiles. He also gives him a glass of water. It might be the same glass Stiles drank from before. Then Master Derek sits down and eats. Stiles tries to see the difference between his plate and Derek's. He supposes the plate for him is chipped, or in some other way recognizable as a slave plate, but he can't find the blemish. He plans to check the bottom of the plate for markings after he washes it.

Derek glances up at him, then looks at Stiles's fork, so Stiles hurriedly eats a few bites. He feels full immediately. His body wants to sleep more than it wants to eat. But he makes himself eat everything on the plate. He stands up, forgetting to wait to be excused, happy to be done and out of the chair.

"You don't have to wash the dishes," Master Derek tells him when Stiles reaches for his plate. "I can get them; you go to bed."

Stiles sighs quietly, but _you go to bed_ sounds enough like an order that he had better not argue.

Derek shows him the slave's room. "I didn't—um... you want me to air it out?" He parts the heavy curtains and opens the window a crack. "Sorry, I didn't think of that ahead of time. There's a little bathroom, here. I hope you'll be comfortable. Let me know if you need anything. Now get some sleep. Um, goodnight."

Stiles gets out of his clothes and gets into bed. The covers soon feel eerily warm. He's used to using other humans' bodies for warmth and comfort. After several minutes he sits up and folds the covers at the foot of the bed. The bed remains strangely soft. Stiles doesn't want to disturb Master Derek, and he's afraid of what might happen if he draws too much attention to himself, so he doesn't get up and pace, or look out of the window. He stays in the bed, but he's not technically following orders, because he is not sleeping.

One time when he was rented out for a week to somebody who was hosting a music festival, he and the other slave boys slept in tents. He was squeezed into a one-man tent with two others, which was pretty much perfect. If he flailed in the night and knocked into somebody, they'd just squeeze up against him; some boy would put a leg over Stiles's legs; somebody else would cover his arms until he couldn't bother anyone, and then they'd all fall asleep and be rested in the morning. He's on edge, aware that there's nobody here but himself, with a werewolf he barely knows in the next room, but his body isn't going to let him stay awake and worry about it. He's been marked, so Master Derek won't forget who he is and accidentally kill him, and he needs sleep so badly.

When Stiles wakes up, he's achy from the tension of sleeping alone. He forgot to ask, and Derek forgot to tell him, what time he's supposed to get up and get to work. His throat is sore and his head aches, and the clock says five-thirty in the morning. Depending on what kind of household this is, he might have overslept himself by half an hour, or he might be up an hour early. The door to the living area is closed. Is he supposed to open it himself, or wait for the master? He decides not to wait. Anything is better than being here alone, not knowing what to do, and having nobody to wake up with. This is normally when he'd attach himself to somebody who sleeps in the same room and already knows how the household works. He can feel the ghost of such a person, he wishes so hard that there were one, but the _idea_ of such a slave can't actually open the door without him, and seems to be waiting for him to do it. His thirstiness also helps to motivate him. He clumsily pulls on his sweats, unlatches the door, pads to the kitchen, and grabs a drink at the faucet with his hands.

It seems that Stiles got up too early, especially since he has no idea what Master Derek wants him to prepare for breakfast. He lets his bed air for exactly half an hour, then spreads up the covers, though he intends to fold them at the foot again at night. He kneels on the kitchen floor and watches the archway that leads into the dim living room.

Finally, Derek's bedroom door opens and he shuffles across the living room carpet to the kitchen tiles. "Good morning," he says, scrubbing up his uncombed hair with his fingers.

"Good morning, Master."

Derek pulls a box of cold cereal out of a cupboard and reads the side of the box. Then he gets out a measuring cup, measures a half-cup of cereal, pours a measured amount of milk onto it, and gives it to Stiles. At the table. In a gorgeous blue bowl that matches the plates from dinner last night.

"I guess Peter's right about being careful." Master Derek watches Stiles begin eating, and continues, "A serving size doesn't look like very much. If you're still really hungry after that's gone, let me know." He doesn't say how Stiles is supposed to let him know. Just say, _I'm hungry?_ Stiles can usually eat, if anything is available.

Derek serves his own breakfast without Stiles's help. He asks, "You want water? Or juice?"

Derek is standing with the fridge door open, leaning toward the juice. Does this mean Stiles should ask for juice? He opens his mouth, and a whispered "Water, please" comes out.

"Okay." Derek fills the glass at the faucet and gives it to Stiles at the table. This time Stiles sees which cabinet he takes the glass from. It's the same cabinet Derek takes his own, identical glass from.

"Uncle Peter gave me the day off, so I can bond with you." Master Derek pulls fretfully at his own fingertips. "What do you like to do?"

Stiles bites his lip uncertainly, because he's pretty sure Derek isn't thinking of the kind of _tasks_ Stiles knows how to do. "Anything you... like me to do?"

"I don't know, other than, um, marking, what kind of... bonding experiences are good for slaves. I wasn't prepared. I tell you what, I'll look on the Internet." Derek goes into the living room. Stiles watches him go, wondering what he's supposed to be doing. He guesses he should wait. He fidgets worse if he's standing, so he starts to sink to his knees just as Master Derek says, "Come in here and sit next to me."

Stiles timidly enters the next room and sees Master Derek pat the cushion next to himself, on the couch. Stiles steps across the room and stands near the couch, but Derek pats the cushion again. "Sit down here." So Stiles has to sit.

Master Derek is looking at his laptop. Stiles settles deep into the couch cushion, trying to fidget as little as possible, barely moving his fingertips together and subtly curling his toes. Suddenly he yawns big. "I'm sorry," he says, and even before he's done speaking, he yawns again, so wide that his jaw creaks. "Excuse me." And he yawns a third time. He shouldn't be so awfully tired. He's only been up about an hour.

"Go back to bed. I'm not finding any good bonding activities, anyway. The Internet says I should mark you and then take you for a walk around the neighborhood, to demonstrate my claim on you. I never take walks by myself, so why would I want to take you on one just to prove a point?"

Stiles staggers bedward. "What time should I get up, Master?"

"I'll wake you up when lunch is ready."

"I can make lunch."

"No, go to bed."

When Stiles wakes up he wonders where he is, and why everything is so soft. Then he remembers he's alone, in his own bedroom. Master Derek said he would wake him for lunch, so Stiles waits in bed, but he doesn't have to wait long. He knows Derek can hear the difference between asleep and awake, and he must have been waiting for Stiles to wake up. Stiles wants to have some other slave there with him, somebody to check in with, somebody to look at or briefly touch, when they hear the master coming to the door.

Derek knocks.

"Coming, Master."

Stiles gives Derek a respectful nod on the way to the kitchen. He turns on the faucet and cups his hands under it.

Derek snarls, "Use a glass."

Stiles startles. The water in his hands splashes into the sink. He forgets to turn off the faucet while he shakes his hands to mostly dry them, then looks for a hand towel. Derek finds one and shoves it at him. "You don't have to look like that. You're not in any trouble."

Stiles turns off the faucet and dries his hands thoroughly, carefully not looking at Master Derek's face. He stands by the sink, begins tapping at the countertop with one forefinger. Derek is pulling silverware out of a drawer. Stiles works up the courage to ask, "Which glass is mine?"

"Any of them," says Derek, and the bottom drops out of Stiles's stomach.

All of Derek Hale's drinking glasses look the same to Stiles. He's unable to pick out the one he drank from last night. He takes a glass from the back corner of the cabinet and takes a small drink from it, then places it on the counter and waits to see if Derek complains. Derek doesn't seem to pay any attention. He's cutting up ham for sandwiches.


	10. Nancy Drew

********

Every slave at kitchen training had his own tin cup. They were supposed to use them once and then put them in the dishwasher, but to save on loads, each slave tried to remember which cup was his. Identical tin cups were stashed everywhere, where nobody else would have put a cup. Stiles often kept his balanced in the u-bend under a sink. One time he got hold of one of the cups with an identifying dent, a prize because he'd know it was his no matter where it was.

At Master Duke's, free access to water was a wall fountain in the slaves' yard. The fountain had a big stone lion's head on it. Water flowed from its mouth into a small pool. The water was warm in summer and icy in winter. If the slaves wanted to wash in it, they were supposed to dip it out into buckets first, to keep the fountain pure. But Stiles and some of the other kids stuck their arms into the fountain all the time. The grown-up slaves hung around the fountain talking, if they didn't have to get right back to work.

After ham and brick cheese sandwiches for lunch, Stiles gets up to wash the dishes. He blocks the sink with his body, ready to defend his task, but Master Derek doesn't stop him this time. Stiles washes and dries the glass he used, then tucks it in the back left corner of the second shelf in the cabinet, so he'll know how to tell it from the others.

Stiles's first set of clothes is dropped off by a driver from Hale House, Master Derek's family home. Derek's parents keep plenty of spare outfits on hand. "That will be all you'll need until I can get you things that fit properly."

Alpha Talia Hale stops by that very afternoon, to see the new boy.

"Well, here he is." Derek sounds nervous.

"Peter says you picked him out yourself."

"Yes, but—Peter approved."

Alpha Hale squeezes Derek. "I'm so proud of you, honey. It's good that you can bring a strange human up here."

Alpha Hale turns to Stiles. "You'll be good for him." She takes Stiles's chin, to hold him steady and look him over. He turns his eyes away the way he's supposed to—at first. And when he does slip up and look at her, she isn't looking at his body. She's looking at his eyes, the same way he's looking at hers. She has dark, smooth hair and dark eyes; Stiles thinks they may be a dark blue, then realizes he's looking straight into the alpha's face and quickly looks away and backs up clumsily. She lets him go. "Welcome to the Hale family, dear."

********

Master Derek tells Stiles, "I'm going to work." He tells Stiles what to eat for lunch, and what time he'll be home in the afternoon.

"What would you like me to do?"

"Um, your duties. Oh, um, I... I usually do everything myself, so I don't know yet. I send laundry out, usually. And groceries are delivered. You can... I guess you can put groceries away."

Stiles glances past Derek toward the kitchen counter, but there are no groceries on it.

"I, uh—I didn't mean now... I meant when I get some groceries." Master Derek turns away and swears under his breath, " _Damnit_." He addresses Stiles again. "Look, just take it easy for now." Derek checks him for scent before he goes to work.

As soon as he's gone, Stiles pounces on the refrigerator and takes inventory. He hasn't been told to prep the produce, but there's no cook in the apartment, so it must be his job. Peppers could be made into stir-fry or fajitas. If he halves them and removes the seeds, they can be diced or sliced later. Apples stay whole for now. Onions shouldn't be in the fridge unless they're peeled. He does that first. He hasn't seen any other means of onion storage in Derek's kitchen.

Stiles scrubs the kitchen, finds a stepstool and dusts the tops of the cabinet doors, and wipes down the top of the fridge. Thankfully, the rungs on the kitchen chairs need dusting. He makes lunch preparation take as long as possible, then kneels on the kitchen floor and eats slowly.

Master Derek made his own bed, which is a task Stiles could do. Stiles wanders into the master bedroom and turns down the bed—since it's already made—for something to do. The sheet smells like Master Derek, and Stiles feels safer smelling his master near and on himself. He sits down, without permission, on the bed. The next thing he knows, Master Derek is opening the apartment door. Stiles has fallen asleep. He blearily scrambles, not even sure where he's going to go—to greet his master? To his own bedroom? His shirt's not even tucked in. He looks like he's been sleeping, he smells like he's been sleeping, his scent is all over the bed. He tucks in his shirt, folds his hands and bows his head, standing as nicely as he can as Derek comes into the room. He looks from Stiles's rumpled hair to the rumpled bed. Then he steps close, smells Stiles's hair and neck, and takes a long, audible whiff of the scent over the bed. He spreads the sheets and comforter back up.

Derek kicks his shoes off. "You don't have to keep standing like that. Do you want a snack and something to drink before supper?"

Stiles goes into the kitchen to wait for the snack and the drink.

Master Derek explains that Stiles should pick anything he likes. Stiles selects raw, cut-up vegetables, and crunches one piece at a time, watching Derek carefully to make sure he made an acceptable choice, and that he isn't eating too many. Derek seems to pay no attention. He eats peanuts and looks at some paperwork from the office.

They have supper, which Derek prepares, then Derek takes Stiles into the shower and marks him.

Couch-sitting happens again. Master Derek has brought Stiles a computer tablet to use, but Stiles doesn't understand why; Derek doesn't tell him what tasks it's for. Derek also brought him a cell phone. Stiles has used a phone before, of course, but never owned one.

"When I'm at work, you can send me photos, videos, or links on my phone." Master Derek shows Stiles what to do to sign into the tablet, then shows him a series of websites. "I think you'll enjoy them." One of the sites he recommends has lots and lots of baby animal pictures.

Derek shows Stiles how to use a search engine. When Stiles finds particularly cute baby animals on the baby animal pictures site, he copies and pastes the caption into the search engine. Then he finds more pictures of the same species of baby animal.

Derek makes Stiles practice until he is able to send a text message, then a photo, to Derek's phone. The photo Stiles chooses to send is of a little flock of baby cassowaries. Stiles has never before heard of a cassowary. The adult has strange, stringy black feathers that drape like fur. The little ones are funny and zebra-striped.

Stiles aired out his own bedroom during the day. He closes the window at bedtime, then takes as long as possible to fold the covers at the foot of the bed. He shuts out the light and curls up on his side. Stiles is beginning to feel an ache, but not from wounds. It’s from being tired of being alone—and it's only day two! _You'll get used to it_ , he tells himself fiercely. _You'll man up and get used to it_. Then: _I'm alone. By myself. I don't know how I can take it_. He mutters aloud, "I thought Derek Hale would have a lot of slaves." His chest and stomach hurt. He doesn't realize he's plucking the covers loudly until Master Derek softly knocks at the door.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Stiles sits up, sounding sleepy, even though he hasn't gotten as far as sleep. "I'm sorry, am I keeping you up?" he covers the treacherous sheet-plucking hand with his other hand and stands up.

"Can I open the door?" asks Derek.

"Um. Yeah. Of course."

Derek opens the door, but stands outside. "You napped in my bed today."

Stiles can't hide the long, ragged sigh he makes. He doesn't know what to say.

"You can't sleep," says Derek.

"I'm sorry, I was working on it." And it is hard work. Stiles has had to learn new jobs everywhere he's gone, with widely varying degrees of success, and he can tell this being alone in a room thing is going to be one of those uphill climbs.

Derek takes half a step back from the door and barely tilts his head towards his bedroom. Stiles really hopes he's not misinterpreting this.

Derek mumbles, "You have trouble sleeping in here. I thought you'd get over it... I mean, I have this slave's room, I thought you'd like it, but... do you want to sleep with me?"

Stiles wishes he could say something in the affirmative. All he can do is nod eagerly in the dark, but he knows the werewolf's eyes can see it.

"Come in my room, then."

Stiles is so satisfied with this arrangement that it should make it easy for him to be good. Master Derek tries to share the covers with him, but Stiles cautiously shakes them off of himself. He lies with his back to Derek, and should be able to lie still; but, of course, his body won't do that for him. His hips jiggle, his hand pats and smoothes his pillow, he pushes his pillow up against the headboard and tries lying with his head on the sheet. As soon as the sheet warms slightly under his cheek, he moves his head.

He feels a light touch on his spine. Stiles startles hard, and clunks his wrist on the bedside table.

Master Derek apologizes. "I'll try to keep my touches more firm." He touches Stiles's back again, and this time applies pressure. Stiles is stiff from having just been frightened, so he doesn't move, but he doesn't relax, either. Derek keeps his fingertips on him for a short time, then pats his back, and Stiles hears and feels him shuffling and settling back in to sleep.

It doesn't take long for Stiles to start moving again. For the rest of the night, every time Stiles gets too active, Derek clamps a palm over whatever part of Stiles is handy and says, "Stop." And Stiles does, for a little while.

Derek is staying home from work the next day, to take Stiles to see the doctor. Stiles is afraid the doctor will find something really wrong with him, and Master Derek won't want to keep him. Stiles is too tired to be able to get through standing at another sale right now.

Dr. Deaton asks Stiles his full name and when Stiles tells him he asks casually, "Any relation to Shannon Stilinski?"

"He's my father."

Dr. Deaton has Stiles stand on a scale. Master Derek seems to think Stiles is terribly underweight. Stiles doesn't want to disappoint him, but there's nothing he can do about how much he weighs. Dr. Deaton doesn't react one way or the other. He reads the weight off the scale, and writes it down.

Deaton looks at the bruise caused by the vendor, and lightly touches it with his thumb. After the exam and talking about Stiles for a while, Dr. Deaton says to Derek, "I'll print out a menu plan for him. Now, if you'll go back out into the waiting area, I have some things to talk about with Stiles."

Master Derek says, "Anything you want to say to Dr. Deaton is in strict confidence. I won't be able to hear anything you say to him."

As soon as he closes the door, Dr. Deaton puts on some music. "Extra precaution. Is it too loud for you?" Stiles shakes his head.

"Your father has been here."

Stiles is so stunned that he almost reaches out for Dr. Deaton. "You can tell him where I live?"

Deaton nods. "When he contacts me again."

"Is he okay?"

"I haven't seen him in some time. Last time I saw him, he was hungry, but strong. I gave him some food to take with him."

Stiles will not cry. What would have been tears turns into trembling down his arms to where he grips the edge of the table.

"When he gets in touch with me again, I'll let you know. I don't know when that will be. We may be able to arrange a meeting, once he contacts me."

"A meeting."

Dr. Deaton nods.

_Thank you thank you thank you._ Now, when it would be polite to speak, Stiles can't make himself say _Thank you_ out loud. It seems impossible that the doctor could let him actually see his father. Stiles feels as if he owes Dr. Deaton complete honesty. He didn't tell the truth when Dr. Deaton was asking him questions in front of Master Derek. He didn't want to seem too imperfect, and he has enough obviously wrong with him already. He swallows, and says, "Dr. Deaton—um—during the checkup—when you asked me if I get—if I—about my—in the morning."

"I asked you if you have erections in the morning."

"And I said, I get them sometimes. I... I lied. I never get them anymore. It's been a long time since... since anything. During the day or at night. I used to be normal, a long time ago. I used to live at a park, and I was normal then."

"You used to have erections regularly, yes?"

Stiles clears his throat and nods.

"I believe they will come back. A low libido is nothing to be afraid of. Give it a month from now. If nothing's changed, and you're worried about it, let me know. You can tell Derek, but you don't have to. You can always call or text me."

Stiles still doesn't feel capable of thanking Dr. Deaton out loud. He's thinking about his dad, about seeing him, about knowing he's okay. He's silent on the way out of the clinic, and on the ride home.

That evening, Master Derek shows Stiles how to buy a book on the Internet. He doesn't make Stiles do it himself, the first time. "I'll buy you one Hardy Boys and one Nancy Drew, to start with. I used to enjoy them, and I hope you will too. But let me know if they're too much for you, and we'll get something easier."

"I can read long books," Stiles says, quick and defensive.

"Okay, that's fine... Downloaded. So here's how you open them up and read them. You can read while I cook supper."

Stiles wishes Master Derek would let him cook supper. But Derek said to read, so Stiles reads. He starts with Nancy Drew, because that's the book Derek left open. It's slow going, in part because he's mentally defying Master Derek's orders. He frowns at the tablet screen, imagining how he could be in the kitchen doing something to help. Besides, some of the words are difficult. He doesn't know how well he's supposed to comprehend this book. Fear of doing it wrong pushes him to read more closely, and very soon, it seems, his attention is drawn by the smell of finished supper. Derek comes and asks him how it's going.

"I don't know all the words."

"That's okay. It's time to eat. I came in here to get you. After supper I'll show you how to use a dictionary on your tablet."

Stiles very much wants to learn to use a dictionary, but he'd rather wash and dry some dishes first. Master Derek won't let him, though. The dishes sit unwashed while Derek sits on the couch with Stiles and teaches him how to use the dictionary. Then he tells Stiles to go on reading, while Derek cleans up the kitchen. Stiles makes an effort and concentrates on the book, despite the sounds of water running and other indications of kitchen work being done. He manages to enjoy it a little.

Stiles thinks, on night two of sleeping with Derek, that if he doesn't stop wiggling around in bed, Derek is going to kick him out in the street. Finally, when Stiles is still wiggling around even with Derek's palm firm on his hip, Derek growls and pins all of Stiles's limbs in a bear hug. Stiles squeaks and grunts in surprise, both at the grabbing and at how strong Master Derek is. He instinctively tries to shrug off the hug.

"Stiles," Master Derek says, encasing him, "be good."

"I'll be good." The pressure begins to take effect. Master Derek has Stiles's limbs fully collected and Stiles's arms and feet stop trying to move. The next thing he knows he's waking up and remembering dreams, good ones.

********

Master Derek won't assign Stiles tasks to do while Derek is at work, because Dr. Deaton told him that Stiles needs to rest. Stiles also "exercises lightly". In the past he's always done enough work to take up his whole day, and he doesn't have experience with doing exercise on purpose. But Master Derek wants him to, so he does.

Master Derek also works out, and not "lightly", at home. Stiles has seen Derek working out, looked at his back muscles moving, and when he thinks of Derek's body in use, that is to say, wrapped around him in bed, Stiles feels dreamy.

The remainder of the day, Stiles rests. He remembers Dr. Deaton saying something about him needing to be given only light duties, but lying on the couch half the afternoon seems like overkill to Stiles.

He cleans the kitchen and bathroom when Derek isn't there to stop him. Whenever Derek sees that Stiles has been doing tasks, he tells him he's worked enough for that day, and makes Stiles rest. And then comes bedtime, when they _both_ rest.

Master Derek uses his closet and only one drawer in his bureau, and says Stiles can use the other drawers and move into his room entirely. Stiles begins layering his clean clothes in between clothes that Derek has worn; this means Stiles's clean clothes are almost always a little Derek-y. Stiles transfers Master Derek's clothes back to the laundry hamper to send out for cleaning after they've spent a day enhancing his own clothes.

When Derek goes to work, Stiles checks the fridge. If he sees there's something planned for supper, such as a casserole ready to go into the oven, or chopped steak patties thawing in the fridge, Stiles readies an appropriate side dish. He scrubs and pricks the potatoes for the oven, or prepares tomatoes for a salad. He would be expected to do these things without being asked, if he were a cook. Master Derek, when he sees the food ready to go, says, "I see you got the vegetables ready. Thanks, but you don't need to do that." Derek even lays out his own clothes every night. Stiles is beginning to wonder why he bought a personal slave in the first place.

Stiles thinks of something he could do while lying on the couch. He asks, "Do you need a blanket?"

Master Derek is confused. "I'm not cold, thanks."

"I mean, do you need a—a new one." Stiles speaks with a lot of gestures, which he tries not to make too broad, so his hands end up tangled in front of himself. "Miss Cora used to—she wanted me to—she bought some yarn. So I could knit a blanket for her."

"You knit?"

"With my fingers, yes."

"I can get you some yarn." Master Derek phones his uncle Peter and asks him to send one of his cars over on Saturday.

When Saturday comes, Derek will not go into the craft store with Stiles. He has marked Stiles to within an inch of his life, scrubbing him well beforehand and then giving him the bare minimum possible rinse-off afterward. He pulls out his wallet. "Any idea how much yarn costs?"

Stiles opens his mouth, has no idea, doesn't know what to say, and forgets to close his mouth. Finally he licks his lips and swallows hard. "I can... go in and check the prices?"

"No, that's okay, here's a fifty, and Tony—" he speaks to the driver "—go in and help him."

"Of course, sir."

The store is bright, and crowded with craft supplies. Stiles stops in the doorway and stares, with no idea where the yarn is, until the driver asks a salesperson for help. Stiles trails after Tony to the right spot, and, in the overwhelming rainbow of choices, finds a skein of thick yarn that's perfect for finger knitting. He brings his master the receipt and the change.

Derek glances at the receipt and hands the change back to Stiles. "You should know how to handle money, and learn how to spend it on yourself. I'm giving you an allowance. It's money for you to do whatever you like with, whenever you like. I'll give you two hundred a month for now, and you practice spending it."

Stiles holds the cash so that Master Derek can easily take it back if he wants to. "I've never—this is my first time handling money. What would you like me to spend it on?"

"I don't decide that. You decide that. Keep that in your shopping bag for now; we'll stop somewhere and get you a wallet."

Stiles makes fists, crumpling the bag holding his yarn and, now, his own money. "Is this like housekeeping money? I'm sorry, I don't know how to buy the things for the house. But I do know how to make a shopping list." 

"It's your money, to do whatever you want with." Derek pushes the paper bag back onto Stiles's lap. Stiles hadn’t realized that he had given it to Derek.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, I—I don't know how to do that."

"You need to practice. When you see something you want, and you have the cash for it, buy it. I'll get you set up with an account online. It will have to be in my name because you're a slave, but you'll have your own password and credit card."

Stiles reaches into the bag to make sure the money and yarn are safe inside, pets the yarn a little bit, and slides the bills around between his fingers before wadding up the top of the bag.

********


	11. The Party

********

Stiles tells Derek when he has finished reading his first Nancy Drew mystery.

"Did you like it?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'm glad you enjoyed."

"Should I start reading another one?"

"Anytime you like. They're for your recreation."

Stiles feels as though he has more "recreation" in this household than there could be books to read during it.

One night at the supper table, Derek tells Stiles that Alpha Hale called and said she's coming over next week. "She said you should cook dinner for us."

Stiles has been chewing a mouthful of stir-fried cabbage and rice, staring unseeingly at a cabinet door. He immediately gives Master Derek a bright, alert look. Then he swallows his food, washes it down with milk, and tries to look intelligent and willing. "What would she like to eat?"

"She said to tell you to make loaded baked potatoes and stuffed mushrooms."

Stiles hesitates for a long time. He picks up his fork and pushes his stir-fry around. "That's really easy, though."

"Yes, and you make good ones."

"But it's—it's for Alpha Hale."

"And?"

"Baked potatoes are so easy. I know how to _cook_."

"Maybe she asked for baked potatoes _because_ they're easy. That way, you won't be stressed out over cooking for the alpha. I ordered the ingredients—you use onions in stuffed mushrooms, right?"

Stiles nods. At least Alpha Hale is making Master Derek let him cook _something_.

The day before the supper, Stiles worries. What will Alpha Hale do if she's not totally happy with the meal? What if he forgets how to cook? He worries about the potatoes—what if they're not fluffy? What if the breadcrumbs for the mushrooms are stale? What if he spills red wine in Alpha Hale's lap? (That last worry leads to so many horrible possibilities regarding permanent stains that he stops thinking of it immediately.)

He chews a few breadcrumbs to taste-test them, and they seem okay, but he's not a werewolf. They might notice staleness that he can't detect.

Master Derek checks Deaton's menu printout and tells Stiles that he can eat a potato while he's at work. Stiles bakes one potato as a test for lunch, and is dismayed to find it only moderately fluffy. Should he ask Master Derek to order different potatoes, or is it too late for that? Half of the potato is left over. Should Stiles ask Master Derek to taste it to determine whether it's good enough? That would mean serving Derek half of the same potato that Stiles had for lunch, but he decides to neatly cut the end and do it anyway.

When Master Derek gets home, Stiles explains that he ate only half of the potato, and wants to get Derek's opinion on whether this bag of potatoes is good enough to serve to Alpha Hale. Derek takes a bite. "Delicious. You always make good potatoes."

The day of the dinner, Stiles is sautéeing chopped mushrooms and onions in butter to mix with bread crumbs, for stuffing the mushroom caps. He anticipates the aroma of hot mushrooms in butter as he adds them to the pan; he loved that smell so much, and the taste, when he lived with Master Ric. But after he stirs for a minute or two, and the scent comes richly up to him, the pleasure is not what he remembers. Instead, he feels the pressure of that feral she-wolf's bite on his lower leg, and remembers falling. He puts the pan on the back burner and sinks to the floor with his back against the oven. He covers his head with his hands and gets his breathing under control, then pinches the bridge of his nose and sniffles quietly.

The mushrooms turn out well.

Stiles assumed that when Alpha Hale came for supper, he would serve the werewolves, and eat his own meal later. Master Derek has made Stiles sit at the table with him since day one, but Stiles didn't think he'd go so far as to have him sit at a table with Alpha Talia Hale. But Derek does it. He tells him to set three places. Stiles sets out all of the fillings for the baked potatoes in small serving dishes, so each person can take what they want from the table.

Alpha Hale gives Derek a warm hug, greets Stiles, and remarks on how good everything looks. As they eat, Stiles tries not to watch the alpha for her reactions. He sneaks looks at Master Derek instead, and there don't seem to be any instances of dissatisfaction with the food. Derek listens to his mother chatting and takes a second potato.

When the werewolves have both pushed their plates in from the edge of the table, Stiles stands up to clear. "I'll get the dishes later, Stiles," Master Derek says, and Stiles sinks back into his seat, dismayed. Derek goes on: "Come and sit with us in the living room."

Master Derek and Alpha Hale sit on the couch. Stiles barely remembers in time not to kneel by Derek's feet. Derek gives him a hinting glance at the loveseat, so instead of going all the way down on his knees, Stiles takes one long, stumbling step and plants his butt on the loveseat.

Alpha Hale tells Master Derek that there are many lessons and activities available for slaves and teenagers, and persons who are both slaves and teenagers. "There's a fun cooking class for slaves coming up."

"Uncle Peter got all of his papers together. Stiles won't learn anything from a beginners' cooking class—he's fully trained already. And he's had kitchen experience with more than one master since he got his certification, too."

"What about cake decorating? Did you learn cake decorating, Stiles?"

"No, Alpha."

"Do you think that sounds fun, learning to decorate cakes with some other kids?"

"Yes, Alpha."

"Mom, what do you expect him to do, say, 'No'?"

Alpha Hale says, "The teen photography club—"

Derek interrupts. "I doubt he's held a camera in his entire life."

"I was going to say, the teen photography club is photographing baby animals this week."

"Oh. Stiles likes baby animals."

Talia stays another hour, then Derek and Stiles walk her to the door. She takes Stiles's hand and thanks him for a lovely dinner.

Stiles watches Master Derek for signs that he's going to do the dishes, then beats him to the sink by about three paces. Since Alpha Hale is promoting activities for Stiles to do, Master Derek might let him help with the dishes tonight. And he does. They do them together.

Stiles is still remembering the she-werewolf from Master Ric's. After the dishes are put away, he asks Derek if he may write to Dr. Deaton.

"Of course."

"May I... have some paper and an envelope?"

"Yes, of course, they're in a drawer in the kitchen someplace."

Stiles writes his goodbye to his father, in case Master Derek sells Stiles before Dr. Deaton sees Dad again. He encloses this letter in a note to Dr. Deaton, and addresses it to the clinic.

Master Derek lets Stiles go to the photography club meeting.

Stiles saw a video online of baby chicks scurrying around exploring and perpetually peeping, and thinks they may be the cutest baby animal in existence. He gets to hold some at the photo club meeting. He holds chicks up to eye level to help the photographers. As soon as you pick one up and cradle it in your palm, it starts to fall asleep. It sinks into its own fluff, its eyes blink slower and lower, until it's all settled with its thin eyelids completely closed, but still slightly twitching, as if it's only pretending to be asleep. Then you put it down on the bedding in the pen, and it stands up in one long, slow movement, spreads its stubby wings and shakes out, and runs off. Stiles picks up another one, and the sequence repeats. There are some black and white spotted ones, but Stiles thinks the yellow ones are the cutest.

There's also a miniature donkey with a stiff mane and big, liquid eyes. It seems to be at least neutral on being petted.

********

Stiles is consistently charmed by whole litters of baby animals. When Derek asks him to share what his favorite photos are, Stiles shows him sleeping litters of spotted mice, matching grey kittens, and tri-colored Hound puppies. Stiles nearly squeals aloud when he discovers a photo of three stripey-spotted wild piglets. One night at supper, Master Derek says, "I notice a pattern."

Stiles looks around the room. "What?"

"You never send me pictures of just one baby animal at a time. They're always multiples."

"Sorry," Stiles says, forgetting not to apologize until he's finished chewing his food. He washes down his mouthful with milk.

"I'm interested in your likes and dislikes, that's the only reason I brought it up."

"Would you prefer more pictures of fewer animals, Master?"

"No." Master Derek is starting to frown. His voice is growing tight. "I was trying to show you that I noticed you have a preference."

Stiles is now completely nervous. He frets while he washes the supper dishes. Over the next few days, whenever he sends Derek photos of animals, his hands shake. He doesn't know how to pick out photos so that Derek won't notice a pattern. But Derek notices, because he sends Stiles a reply to one of the pictures: "Your animals look lonely."

Another text: "Why did you send me a photo of only one baby rabbit by himself?"

Stiles replies: "Sry."

"Did you like that picture especially?"

"no"

"I don't need to look at random pictures. Only send me pictures you like, okay?"

"ok"

Stiles then decides to inform Master Derek of something he recently learned on the Internet. Regarding the baby rabbit, he types, "It’s called a kitten."

Master Derek sends back a smiley face.

Stiles sends baby animal groupings again. He does prefer it if the animals aren't lonely. He knows what it's like to go from the constant company of other humans to... nothing, almost all day, almost every day. At least Derek figured out early on that he has to let Stiles in his bed if Stiles is going to get any sleep.

One evening during peaches and cream for dessert, Master Derek begins, "All your animals..."

Again with the animals. Stiles snaps, "If you keep telling me I'm doing something wrong with those animal photos I'm going to quit looking at them!" Then he speed-walks into the bathroom and locks the door and tries to get a handle on himself. _Holy shit_.

Master Derek's voice, right outside: "It's okay. I was just... noticing... are you lonely?"

Yes. He is so lonely. He'd be obsessed with it if he weren't distracted some of the time by being frightened. Stiles sinks down on the bathroom floor.

Master Derek, outside the door, says that he doesn't know what to do, that maybe Stiles would like to make some slave friends. "I have no idea how we'd go about something like that. I'll ask my mom for some advice."

Stiles comes out of the bathroom to do the supper dishes. Master Derek is already washing them, so Stiles dries. Derek won't listen to any apologies from Stiles about being rude.

Less than a week later, Derek says, "My mom got you invited to a party. If you want to go, the driver will pick you up this Friday at nine." When he talks about drivers, Master Derek always means Peter Hale's drivers. Peter has something like fifteen drivers. Master Derek has told Stiles that every time Uncle Peter doesn't know what to do with a new slave he just had to have, but doesn't have a spot for, he teaches them to drive.

"Okay. What will I be doing there?"

"I was thinking... you might make some friends or something."

"Make friends?" Every time Stiles doesn't understand something, like now, he starts to get nervous and shaky before he even has a chance to get his brain wrapped around the question.

Derek knits his brows at him. "What's wrong?"

Stiles shakes his head, opens his mouth to speak, sighs and closes it again. He knows he's knitting his own brows, too. Finally, he sags. "I don't understand," he admits.

"Oh." Derek's eyebrows go back up to normal levels. "My mother got you _invited_ to the party. You're going as a guest. The party is mostly for slaves."

"The party is _for slaves_?"

Derek nods.

From then until Friday evening, it sinks in that Stiles is going to a place with a large number of assembled slaves. He slowly grows very excited.

But then he realizes, and asks Derek: "How do I go to a party?" Stiles always enjoyed parties at Deucalion's, but those parties didn't have slaves as guests and often ended in werewolf blood being spilled. He was not supposed to attend, nor spy on the action; so said his father, when he inevitably caught Stiles crouched underneath a buffet table or under Deucalion's platform.

"You just have fun," says Master Derek.

He's no help. "What do _you_ do at parties?"

"I don't know. I don't go."

"Why not, if they're fun?"

"They aren't fun for me."

Stiles gets worried. But then the driver comes to get him, and Master Derek says to just go and have fun. Stiles treats that as an order and squares up. Besides, there will be people. People maybe close to his rank? He's a personal slave now, so that's kind of high ranking.

The party turns out to be at the shiniest, most massive house Stiles has ever been inside. The ceiling is the highest he's ever seen, even higher than the big hall ceiling at Deucalion's. Everything is white and gold, including most of the people. There are white tables with flowers on them, and a small fountain bubbling over with something rose-colored.

The driver goes inside with Stiles, and says, "Go ahead, enjoy yourself." Stiles backs into him, afraid to step into the middle of the floor. But the driver gives him a small, encouraging shove and a smile, and then moves off, to talk to some people nearby. He's going to attend the party, too. This leaves the doorway they came through empty. Stiles backs through it, stands in the hallway, and watches the huge, bright room until somebody in fancy clothes comes sweeping past. It's a boy Stiles's age. He's dressed as a very shiny and expensive page, with shiny expensive stripes down his sleeves, though Stiles is sure he's a werewolf. And too old to be a page.

The werewolf slave sees Stiles and smiles crookedly. "Hi," says the werewolf. "I'm Scott."

"Stiles." Stiles knows that the next thing out of his mouth will be inappropriate, but he can't be expected to be in control of his mouth and his hands at the same time. It's all he can do not to reach out and pet Scott's thick, fine, brown hair. "Why are you dressed as a page boy?"

"I'm not a page. I'm a footman."

"I'm sorry. I thought—I'm sorry I underestimated your rank."

Scott grins. "I'm not offended."

Scott's master must have huge amounts of money, even compared to Deucalion or the Hales. "Not necessarily," says Scott, and Stiles realizes he said that out loud, too, though this time he didn't know ahead of time he would, whereas with the page question he saw it coming.

Scott chuckles. "Maybe the Hales don't spend their money on footmen. We're very showy." Scott is, indeed, very showy. "Are you with the Hales?" he asks, warmly curious.

"Yes. I'm Derek Hale's personal slave."

"Oh, good." Scott, claps Stiles on the shoulder. "That must make Peter happy. He's been after Derek forever to get one. How do you like Derek?"

"I like him."

Scott beams.

"Aren't you a werewolf? Can footmen be werewolves, or what?"

"It's not that big a deal," says Scott, the werewolf. "Not here. But, I know I'm super lucky because in some houses I would have been killed or kicked out."

"Oh, my God," said Stiles. "You just turned out to be a werewolf?"

Scott shakes his head. "Your master's uncle Bit me. Peter Hale. He can be... kind of impulsive sometimes? I'm not _supposed_ to be a slave and a werewolf at the same time. But when I turned, Peter pleaded for me, because it was his fault. He said he'd take me rather than see me homeless. But that didn't end up happening. Everything's okay, now."

Scott takes Stiles into the party, and Stiles isn't afraid to go in anymore, though he's still afraid to touch anything. The problem with being afraid to touch anything is that when a Maltese dog with hair as shiny as ribbon candy, and a red bow around its neck, comes right up to you, there's a conflict between being afraid to touch anything and really wanting to pet that dog. Scott picks up the Maltese and holds it for Stiles to pet. It keeps sticking its long pink tongue out through its white face-fur and trying to lick both of them.

At home again, while Master Derek sits at the kitchen table, Stiles washes dishes and tells him everything that happened at the party. "Then Scott's mom came up to us. I didn't know she was Scott's mom, she's this super pretty lady, and her dress was red and white and every bit of it was shiny, totally fancy, so I was afraid to get near her because I was sure I would spill something on her, even though I wasn't holding anything to spill, but she came right up to me and she smiled at me and I didn't know what to do, I thought she had to be an owner. That was what I thought, but she didn't have owner hands. She had mom hands. I wanted to _hold_ one of her hands. And she's _Scott's mom_. Scott said, 'Mom, this is Derek Hale's new personal slave, you can hug him.' And she said, 'Oh, good.' And we hugged. Before I left the party, when the driver told me it was time to come home, Melissa put her hand on my cheek. You should probably try to meet Melissa, if you can. Except, you still have a mom, so... maybe it's not the same for you."

"I've met Melissa," says Master Derek.

"Oh, so you _know_ , then. Their place is full of baseboards. I don't know who dusts them, probably if they have any little kid slaves they do it, but at Duke's there were only like two or three rooms with baseboards. The stable office, and then this den nobody used, and I think maybe Deucalion's bedroom but I wasn't his maid so I'm not sure. And doing only the baseboards I had to do _took forever_. It was so boring. Did you know Scott is a werewolf?"

Derek nods. "Peter turned him."

"I brought you something. Have you ever seen one of these before? Even in kitchen training I never saw one. Melissa said they were the best food there, and she put one into my hand, and then I knew it was okay to take some food off the tables. And Scott showed me where all the things were to make roast beef sandwiches. Scott said _those_ were the best thing to eat, on the whole buffet. Anyway, this is a petit four. I brought it for you, if you want it. I asked Melissa if it would be stealing to bring one to you, and she said it would be totally fine, and that she'd get me something to put it in, so here it is in a little box. The outside is... um... glaze. And then inside is sponge cake and apricot jam."

"Thank you," says Master Derek, and eats it. He hums. "Very nice."

Stiles blushes.

Derek asks him, "Did you have fun?"

Stiles confides, "I like parties."

"What did you like best?"

"Scott."

Derek looks thoughtful, then tense and miserable. He furrows his brow and looks like he's working hard on something. He forces out some words and it turns out that he's trying to give Stiles a gift. "Do you want to see Scott every other week?"

"Yes! I mean—I also like parties? But if I can see Scott McCall, I don't care about parties."

Master Derek lets out a breath. "You can call Scott any time you want. And we'll work out something about visits."

Stiles never imagined anything this good. He wants to hug his master. He can't do that, so he says, "Thank you," and is worried it doesn't sound grateful enough.

"You're welcome."

********

Peter's driver drops Stiles off at the slaves' entrance, and somebody rings a bell which brings Scott. He lights up when he sees Stiles, and Stiles smiles back.

"We have to go see the master," Scott says, without any preamble, and Stiles tries to keep up with him in the halls. Stiles thought that Scott's master would ignore him. They go through progressively fancier, smaller rooms until they come into a fanciest dining hall, with a long shiny dark table, and at the head of the table is Scott's master, looking at a laptop computer. Scott goes fearlessly up to him, trailing timid Stiles. "Master Damon, this is Derek Hale's personal slave, Stiles Stilinski."

Master Damon stands up and gives Stiles a little bow. Stiles can't hide from the fanciness anywhere, and is sidling behind Scott, but Master Damon reaches out a hand to him—to shake hands. "How do you do?" He says. "I've heard good things about your father."

Scott must see that Stiles is terrified of shaking hands with the master. He reaches around and and touches Stiles on the small of his back—a signal to stay there and go through with it. Stiles remembers to bow a little, too, and shakes hands. He's surprised at himself that the handshake is comfortable and firm.

"He's pleased to meet you," Scott offers on behalf of the helpless Stiles.

Stiles nods. "Oh—yes."

Master Damon smiles pleasantly, directly at Stiles. Then he goes back to his chair. "Go have fun."

Scott leads Stiles out of the room, still touching him.

The recreation room for slaves is richly paneled and full of things to do. Scott tries to teach Stiles ping-pong. This soon proves not to be Stiles's strong suit. Scott then pulls the cover off of a gleaming pool table and lights a lamp hanging above it. "Want to play?"

"No," Stiles squeaks, looking with horror at the fragile felt playing surface. "Please—I couldn't stand it if I wrecked something here."

"Okay," says Scott, with a broad, easy shrug. "Can you read chapter books?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good, do you want to sit together and just read?"

That sounds fine to Stiles. Scott throws open double doors to a library, loaded with books on shelves all the way up the walls and more books stacked on the tables, and cushions on the floor. Scott glances at Stiles standing in the middle of the room hugging himself and says, "I'll pick out a handful and you pick from those, does that sound okay to you?"

"Oh, yes, that's—that's very okay."

Stiles chooses _One Hundred and One Dalmatians_ on the strength of the ink line drawings at the chapter headers and inside the covers.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, after a while, putting his book down.

"What for?"

"For not playing pool. For not being any fun."

Scott marks his place in his book with his finger and gives Stiles a puzzled smile. "I'm having fun. Aren't you having fun?"

"Yes," Stiles admits. "But we aren't doing anything fancy. This house is full of fancy stuff. This book is fancy—it has words like 'splendid'. Even you're fancy."

Scott laughs.

When they're done reading books, Scott says, "Come with me. I'll show you fancy."

"Is it breakable?"

"No. Come on, let's run."

They skid through the halls on the polished floors, avoiding any slaves who are carrying things, and come to a wooden double door with small windows in it. Scott opens it, and humid air comes out.

There's a jungle on the other side of the door. It's enclosed by walls and an arching ceiling at least two stories high, all made of windows. A narrow wood chip path curves upward to a stand of drooping trees with feathery leaves, as if on a real hill outdoors. Slaves in brown gardening aprons are working with massive ferns and low-growing plants—some with solid blue-green leaves, others splashed or striped with white. Vapor rises from the mulch and obscures a dark green plant; each one of its leaves is as tall as Stiles.

"California is too dry for all of these plants," says Scott. "So Master Damon had this conservatory built for them. There are automatic misters in the floor—hold your hand here." Vapor coolly envelopes Stiles's hand. Scott smiles when Stiles wiggles his fingers in the weird feeling. He gives Stiles only a minute to play with the mist, then grabs his hand. "Come on. Want to see the orchids?"

Stiles stares at and, with Scott's permission, touches, exotic plants and velvety flowers for two hours, until it's time to go home.

Scott sees him to the slaves' entrance, where Peter's driver is waiting. Scott gives Stiles a little bow and says, "Please come again."

"Thank you, I want to. I will."

Later that night, Derek tells Stiles, "Master Damon texted me and praised you. He said Scott really enjoyed the diversion."

Stiles borrows Master Damon's excellent word. "I really enjoyed the _diversion_ , too, Master. Thank you for letting me go."

********


	12. Cootie

********

Stiles ignores his hard-ons at first. He started getting them almost a month after Master Derek bought him, but he didn't think about them much beyond feeling a vague, weary relief that his body was all right. He gets morning wood sometimes. He hasn't felt aroused, but sometimes he gets erections during the day, too, that go away on their own. The last time he touched himself was when he lived at the park, and he doesn't think about masturbating now.

One night, Derek takes Stiles to bed with him as usual and cuddles up. It feels good. Stiles hasn't been frightened for several hours, not since his last marking and shower. He feels secure when he smells like Derek, and like Derek's soap and shampoo. He's been using underarm deodorant from Derek's stock, too. He's not sure why some werewolves use deodorant, with all their emphasis on personal scent, but if Master Derek's using it, and gives Stiles permission to use it, then Stiles is using it. The kitchen is clean; everything is in place and ready for breakfast when they wake up.

Derek starts the night with his arms around Stiles. They doze off. Slowly Derek's arms slacken, and he rolls over, away from Stiles. So now Stiles is free in the bed, and he rolls over, too. He's hard. He tips his hips in toward Derek's ass, twice, in a humping motion. By the time Stiles realizes what he's doing, he finds that he has actually laid a hand on his master's hip, to hold him steady.

Stiles is horrified, but his hand stays clamped on Master Derek's hip. Derek wakes up, nudges Stiles's hand away, and turns over. Stiles knows Derek must be able to smell his arousal.

Stiles should calmly get out of bed, or sneak far over to one side. He could curl up and act asleep now, as a sign of submission, if only he could get his body to stop clenching up.

"Stiles? Calm down. Go to the bathroom and take care of yourself. Go on, get out of bed." Derek nudges Stiles in the right direction.

Stiles has to sit on the edge of the bed for a minute to calm himself enough to even stand up. He's still hard. He can't figure out why his terror won't just make his erection go away.

Derek adds, "Lock the door while you're in the bathroom, if it makes you feel better. Then when you're done, come back to bed."

Stiles gets up and takes a step toward the bathroom. He absolutely must do nothing but finish off in the shower, and go back to bed. All business. He locks the door, as Derek told him to do. Stiles knows a werewolf can easily break down the door, but he feels different anyway with it locked.

Stiles considers turning the shower to cold, to get rid of his arousal, but that might leave him where he started, when he gets back in bed with Master Derek. Besides, sometimes Stiles had to take cold showers and baths at his old places. Right now, he has a choice. He makes the shower even warmer, because he can. He begins to stroke himself. He's startled at how firm he is. The sensitivity of his skin under his fingers makes him shiver.

Stiles thinks about Master Derek while he touches himself. He remembers a night when Derek stopped holding him and turned away, and Stiles wasn't sure what to do. He grew rigid and unrestful, unsure whether he should stay in place for Derek to take up spooning again if he wanted to, or if he should follow him when he turned over, or if he should scooch out of the way completely. Derek gave him a firm pat on the side. He asked Stiles, "Hey, you okay?" Stiles liked his voice in the dark.

He remembers another time, Derek telling him to get in bed and put the covers over himself, and he'd be in shortly. When Master Derek climbed in and tugged Stiles toward himself he greeted Stiles in an affectionate tone: "Hey, little guy."

Stiles forgets about getting off as quickly as possible. He plants his feet far apart and feels his own ass, to help him guess what it would be like to put his dick in someone else's ass: specifically, Master Derek's. The uncertain touch of his own fingertip on his hole goes straight to his dick, and he moans Master Derek's name without meaning to. He makes a strangled sound, and his hands fly to cover his mouth.

Stiles knows that Master Derek knows that he is masturbating. Derek sent him to take care of himself. If Master Derek heard that moaning of his name over the shower noise, he will know that Stiles has been thinking about _him_ while he's touching himself. Stiles is sure Derek must have heard. It was not a quiet moan. He begins whimpering despite himself, and he knows it's the worst thing he can do. He sinks to the shower floor and keeps his mouth and nose covered with both hands. His scared noises stay under his breath for a little while. Then he thinks about going back to bed smelling as scared as he is now, like cornered prey, and a cry escapes the confines of his hands. Stiles hears his own cry, and he's aware of his fear of being afraid. It's dangerous, he has to stop, because all it takes for some werewolves to snap is somebody being afraid of them. He has no idea what Master Derek will do to someone who's making these high-pitched noises, who smells like arousal, who's aroused _because of Derek_ , was trying to hump him in bed, and smells like spiraling fear on top of that. Stiles can't stay in the shower forever. He can either make Master Derek drag him out, or he can do something about this, himself.

_I **have** to come, otherwise I'll calm down again with his arms around me in bed and get hard and_ —and he's totally hard again. Stiles scrambles up from the shower floor and braces himself against the wall with one hand. He grips himself tightly, wondering how tight Derek's ass might be, appalled that he would still think of something so outrageous as mounting his master. It works, though. Stiles whines, grunts, and comes. There's a lot. He whimpers, again sounding like prey. He rests his head against the shower wall and lets the water run over his shoulders.

Master Derek's direction was to come back to bed when he was done. He feels safest with Derek, but Derek is the person he may have just badly offended. He'll probably make Stiles try to sleep by himself, in the slave's room. Maybe for a whole week. Stiles sighs and turns off the shower, and dries himself.

The shower won't have removed all of the sex smell to a werewolf's senses, though Stiles was terrified and thorough in his washing. He cracks the door to the bedroom. What if that smell doesn't disgust Master Derek? What if, instead of kicking Stiles out of bed, Derek wants to fuck him? Stiles has never even had one of his own fingers inside of his ass. He's untrained for anything Derek might want; he'll do it wrong. Even though he used the bathroom after his shower, he almost pisses himself with fear, and rushes back to use the toilet. Then he goes back to bed.

"Are you okay?" Derek puts an arm over him. Stiles tucks his elbows in tight and goes tense all over. He must reek of fear and sex, but Derek doesn't mention how Stiles smells, or how he said his name in the shower. "Calm down and go to sleep."

Stiles is silent at first, but he can't relax, and whimpers, which frightens him the way it did in the shower—he sounds like prey. His skin keeps flinching away from Derek's fingers, curled on his rib cage; he imagines he feels claws sprouting. Stiles goes into a fetal position with his hands spread over his head. "Please don't kill me don't kill me please don't fuck me please don't fuck me."

Derek pulls away, and Stiles's heart rate slows down. He latches onto something that might mollify his owner. "I like you," he squeaks. "I like you, I like you."

"I like you, too," Derek says in a deep, uncertain voice.

_No, don't do this to me, I'm trying to submit, it shouldn't matter how you feel about me._ Stiles rolls over and exposes his throat and belly to Derek.

Derek touches his belly lightly, then withdraws his hand when Stiles squirms and whimpers. "Sorry, um. Do you want firmer touch?"

"Yes, Master whatever you want whatever you want, you can do whatever you want—"

Derek presses his palm onto Stiles's belly, and Stiles changes his mantra back to, "No, please don't kill me, please don't fuck me."

Derek takes his hand back off of Stiles and reaches for his phone. Stiles can hear the ringing. In response to a smooth female voice Stiles does not know, Derek makes a request: "Sorry to call so late. Could you and Alpha Hale come over, please? I need your help."

" _No, no_." It cuts into his streams of _please don't kill me please don't fuck me_.

"It's okay, they're going to help," Derek tells him. "You like my mom."

"Please don't bother the alpha! She's going out of her way because I'm being difficult!" Stiles lets out part of a scream and then stops, unable to breathe.

"Shh. You like my mom," Master Derek repeats. "It'll be all right. You'll be okay. She'll be here soon, and her secretary is coming with her."

_She'll hate me for being gross in her son's presence, for having disgusting thoughts about him. **Hate me**._

"You can wear pajamas and a robe for when they get here."

Stiles can't move out of the bed until Derek tells him firmly: "Get out of bed and put a robe on, and comb your hair."

Stiles does those things. Derek does them for himself, too.

Stiles kneels by the kitchen door to wait for the arrival of Alpha Hale and her secretary. He doesn't get a chance to open the door for them, because Derek hears them coming long before Stiles does, and opens it before Stiles is even standing up. Both of the women look dressed up. Their soft, loose-fitting pants might possibly be lounging pants, but if they are, they are the nicest ones Stiles has ever seen. Alpha Hale gives Derek a quick hug. She introduces her secretary as Contessa.

Contessa steps forward. "Welcome to the family. We're all glad you're here to be company for Derek." She reaches to shake Stiles's hand, and he gives a confused bow. By the time he's reached out because he realizes she wants him to shake her hand, she's taken her hand back, so his hand does a little flailing before he lets it rest down at his side.

"Nice to meet you, Contessa—Miss—Ma'am. Contessa?"

"You can call me Contessa."

Derek says, "I wanted you to meet her, Stiles. You can sit with her in the kitchen."

Okay, he'll sit with her in the kitchen then. Contessa sits in a chair as if it's totally natural to her to sit at a werewolf's table. She's carrying a large, caramel-colored, leather bag, which she puts on her lap. Stiles gets her a glass of water. He gives her the one glass he has privately designated as a slave glass. He drinks out of his palm at the sink.

Master Derek comes up behind him. "Use a glass, Stiles," he growls.

Stiles ducks and flails, flings water over himself and the floor, and bangs his knee on the cabinet. He gets a towel for the floor and himself, bends over to wipe up the spill, looks up in anguish at the poised Contessa at the table. He glances apologetically at Master Derek.

Derek looks pained. "Never mind. It's no big deal. You didn't hurt anything. Do whatever you like." Derek leaves the kitchen with wine for himself and his mother. Stiles should have gotten the wine for them. But they didn't ask. They're impossible.

Contessa pushes an empty chair out from the table at an inviting angle. Stiles sits. Contessa smiles, showing a shallow dimple. Her dun-colored cheek takes on a rosy tone. "Stiles is a nice name. Did you come with it, or did Derek name you?"

"I came with it."

"Derek named me when he was a boy. He got the name out of a book. I didn't come with one."

Stiles can't continue this normal conversation. He presses the heels of his hands over his eyes and clunks his elbows onto the tabletop. "Master Derek said he bought me to be a personal slave. I'm trying, but I'm a cook. That's all I'm trained for—that and opening gates. And picking mushrooms. Basically a lot of things that have nothing to do with being a personal house slave."

"Maybe Derek meant a companion type of personal slave."

Stiles croaks, "Do you mean companion like... like..." he scratches at the table with the back of one ragged fingernail and coughs once. "Like, like um... like..." Five "likes" make it clear what he's referring to.

"I only meant what you're doing for Derek now. How I started out, when the Hales first got me. Mainly doing simple tasks and keeping werewolves company. When me and the Hale children were younger, I was almost always with them. I'd sleep at the foots of their beds, and they slept better when I was there. I made them feel secure."

"But Derek isn't a little kid."

"No, but he was traumatized."

"I know he was. Everyone knows it."

"So, he needs help with that sometimes."

"I can't help him." It comes out sharply, as if he's dismissing her. "Alpha Hale helps him with that. Whenever she comes to visit, she hugs him, and comforts him, and tells him everything is okay now. He hasn't asked me to do anything like that."

"Maybe you don't need to do anything."

"Not _do_ anything?"

"I mean, not do anything specific to his past."

Stiles lowers his head almost to the table. "Would it help if I was a... sex slave?"

"I don't know. I do know that Derek knows you're not trained for it. He knows your background. You can trust that he won't expect you to magically know how to do it. Do you know how to play any games? I brought a few. I can set up Hungry Hungry Hippos."

"I remember Hungry Hungry Hippos. We had toys when..." Stiles stops and watches Contessa begin to set it up. He rubs at his eye with a thumb, glances aimlessly around the kitchen, and vibrates his knee. "Will we be playing a whole game? Like, until somebody wins or loses?" He tries to figure out how to subtly throw a game to his opponent. Winning to a superior slave is not an option. Maybe if he slaps his hippo really slowly.

Suddenly Contessa begins gathering the game back up. "I'm bored with hippos," she says as if Stiles has not spoken, as if she's in her own little world. "Especially hungry ones. Let's play Cootie!"

"Cootie? How much—how much stuff do you have in that bag?" It's a rude question, and might be construed as suspicion. _Shut up, shut up, shut up, Stiles_. He hums tunelessly. Also impolite, but better than talking in words. Anything out of his mouth is treacherous. But Contessa places piles of Cootie pieces on the kitchen table, and Stiles has to ask. "How do you—how do you win that game."

"You know what?" She laughs lightly. "When I play with the servants' kids at Hale House, and whenever I used to play with Derek and his brothers and sisters, I don't think we ever used the instructions or played a real game!"

"But what. How do we—what do we do?"

"We make Cooties!"

"Oh." Stiles shoves some of the plastic pieces around on the table. "Any special color? Why do you say 'servants'?"

"I mean slaves." Contessa gives a quick tilt of her head. "And you can use any color, just put the little bits in here... these are legs..."

There's no special concentration required, the game is colorful, and if Stiles hyperfocuses, then there'll just be some souped-up weirdo Cooties on the kitchen table. Hopefully that won't hurt anything.

Contessa seems amused. She laughs at their creations. Stiles hunkers down in between his own shoulders and sticks body parts onto main parts. _Good, Stiles, keep going. Makin' Cooties. Shit, shit._ He snapped a piece. It broke. He has broken something that came from _the_ Hale House. How could he break a children's toy? How could he do actual damage to Hale property when he's not even really playing a mindless game? He guessed there had to be a first time to break something in Master Derek's apartment, but when Alpha Hale is here, in the next room?

Contessa doesn't seem to have noticed. For one whole second, it crosses Stiles's mind to be dishonest to save his own skin. He could pretend... No. No, he can't pretend the piece got lost somewhere between him and her big fancy expensive bag at the end of the visit. He takes a deep breath, holds it for long seconds. "I broke a piece."

"Oh." Contessa puts the broken piece in her bag. She pulls out a tiny plastic baggie full of little colored limbs. "Here's a spare."

"I'm going insane," Stiles thinks to himself. Oh, nope, he actually said that out loud. Now he has one of those fragile little pieces in his hand, and if he tries to keep up appearances and attach it to something, he'll snap it, he'll break it, making it the second thing he's broken in Derek's home. Stiles will then die of a heart attack. He'll make a mess all over Derek's kitchen, and Contessa, Alpha Hale's personal secretary, will be embarrassed. "You want some toast?" He doesn't know where that came from, but it's an excuse to jump up and start getting out bread.

"I'm not really hungry, but I'll say yes to some toast."

Stiles makes toast. It's perfect toast, and they enjoy it. He loosens up enough to munch an entire slice. Contessa said that he should make himself one, when he made hers. In the absence of Master Derek, who is still in the other room, the higher-ranking slave rules. So Stiles has toast.

Derek comes back into the kitchen and sets the wine glasses down. "Stiles, my mother and Contessa are spending the night. You won't have to be alone with me in bed. Go and open the window in the other bedroom to air it out, and turn down the bed. Then wait in there until I call you, please."

Stiles takes advantage of his free moment of waiting to kneel and compose himself on the spare bedroom floor. When Contessa enters the room, he jumps up, closes the window and draws the curtains, bows, and waits for further instructions.

"Thanks for setting up the bedroom for me."

Stiles blurts out, "You have to sleep in here alone? I thought I was getting it ready for you and me."

"You're sleeping with Derek and Alpha Hale in the master bedroom."

"Wouldn't you rather sleep with us?"

"Don't worry. It won't bother me. If Alpha Hale thought I'd be afraid in here by myself, she'd let me sleep on Master Derek's floor on her side of the bed. I'm going to take a long shower and stay up late."

"It's already late." Stiles tries to penetrate her feelings with a look, but Contessa only seems as cheerful as ever.

Derek leans in at the doorway and gestures for Stiles. "Come in to bed. You will not have to be alone in bed with me for the rest of the night."

Stiles is going to Derek, but he turns halfway back to Contessa as he walks. "Well—goodnight, then."

Contessa smiles and gives a little wave. "Goodnight."

Maybe it is better this way. She won't have to see a punishment happening, if he's going to be punished for his behavior in bed earlier. Stiles goes into the master bedroom and hangs up his robe.

Alpha Hale and Derek lie on their sides in bed, propping themselves up and facing each other, fully clothed and human shaped.

Stiles sees that there is room in between the wolves for him to fit, but he's hoping they'll ask him to lie on the foot of the bed, or better yet, on the floor. "I'm sorry for being so difficult. What would you like me to do?"

Master Derek pats the bed between himself and Alpha Hale. "You can get some sleep."

One of the reasons why, up until tonight, Stiles has been able to behave fairly well in bed is that Derek holds onto him from behind. It keeps Stiles from fidgeting. But when Stiles gets back into bed between Derek and Talia, Derek doesn't put his arms around him. Stiles backs up to him, hinting, but Derek doesn't hold on, probably because he's disgusted with Stiles for the humping earlier. So Stiles distracts his body from fidgeting by wadding up his own T-shirt in his fist. The skin from just below his ribs to the top of the curve of his hip is exposed to the air.

Derek stretches and yawns, and his claws come out and scratch Stiles lightly just above the elastic band of his pajama pants. Stiles is concentrating on trying to hide inside of himself and go to sleep; at the light scratch his hip his whole body shudders. Then Master Derek, too cautiously, touches his claws to Stiles's shoulder, and his forefinger claw tickles Stiles's bare neck. Stiles flails hard backwards. He turns, to make sure his out-of-control hands aren't in Master Derek's way, but the act of turning means his knuckles clunk up against Derek's nose.

Derek wrinkles his nose and brings up a clawed hand to touch it. Stiles flails further, horrified that he bumped his master's nose, and hits Derek's arm with his elbow, which means Derek's claws scrape across Derek's own nose, because of Stiles's clumsiness, and now Stiles _has_ to get out of Derek's way. He's struck his owner, twice. Stiles has never struck anyone, not even a human being. He's definitely never struck a werewolf. And his owner, no less. His good owner. He deserves to have his own nose clawed in half. Stiles once saw a slave about his own age at the time have his cheek torn out on the spot for bumping up against a short-tempered werewolf. It shocked Stiles, because he was constantly running up against werewolves at Deucalion's, and they never minded. Now he knows that households besides Deucalion's aren't like that.

There's a line of blood welling up on the scrape on Derek's nose. Stiles should just take his punishment. A tiny wakeful part of his brain in the background tells him that the less he moves, the less injury he might receive, but he's not in control of his body.

He's never slept with his owner before Derek, not even in the same room, let alone in the same bed. What was Derek thinking? He _knows_ Stiles has trouble holding still, and moves all over the bed. The Hales are insane.

There's no way off Stiles's side of the bed, because Talia is there. The wolves have him hemmed in, Derek has bent his leg so Stiles can feel it under his own foot, meaning there's no way off the end of the bed, and at the head of the bed is the wall. Stiles has to get away from the one wolf who currently has a reason to smash him to a teenage human pulp. Part of him is still saying _freeze, eyes lowered, hands down, even an impolite fetal position is better than nothing_ , but that's not what the rest of him is doing.

Talia moves. She's been lying on her side, with her cheek propped on one hand. Now her topmost shoulder rises and her arm comes up and forward—not a lot, but that's where Stiles was going to be. He was going to go over her. Talia places her hand on top of Stiles's head, and Stiles ducks and pushes his face through the space between her hand and her elbow. She drops her hand to Stiles's shoulder and squeezes. Stiles whines and flinches, lifting his shoulder thoughtlessly to get her hand off. Master Derek's claws scratch Stiles's spine through his pajama top. Stiles bats and scratches at Talia's arm. "Hey," she says, and releases his shoulder. Her eyes glint red, and Stiles's heart flips over in his chest. He rushes forward again, but Talia's hand encloses his arm. Stiles doesn't have time for this. Derek's claws slide on his sweaty skin, into the hairs at the back of his neck. Stiles chomps down hard on Talia's upper arm. "Ow," says Alpha Hale.

"Hey. Stiles," says Derek. Stiles kicks, grabs at empty air on the other side of Talia, thumps onto the floor, crawls on his belly and elbows, gets up on his hands and feet, and darts to the bathroom. He locks the door, collapses on the floor with his hands supporting him over the toilet seat and dry heaves until he's sure nothing is coming up.

He remembers Talia saying, "Ow."

He remembers after that her saying, "Don't nip, Stiles. I'm moving."

He whispers, "I know not to bite. I know that. Duh. Fucking. Duh. What have I done. What have I done." He laughs. And cries. "I know better than to bite you!" When he hauls himself up to use the toilet he discovers that he's peed his pajama pants. He stares stupidly at them, then wads them up in the hamper. He's shaking, and doesn't even try to stop. Why bother. He'll be stopped shaking forever, soon enough. He sits on the floor again and hugs the toilet.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, his stomach tingling inside as if there's poison or fire in it. He's not too chilled and stiff, so it can't be very long before he hears Contessa say, "Come out of the bathroom, Stiles."

She's not likely to be the one to kill him.

He can't go out naked from the waist down. "Coming," he says, and is shocked to hear his own voice. Not even wobbly. He has no clean pants in the bathroom, and decides using a towel is better than asking Contessa to bring him some pants. He wraps one of Derek's huge, fluffy white towels around himself and unlocks, then unlatches the door and steps onto the carpet. Every brief sound is loud.

Master Derek and Alpha Hale are not in the bedroom. Contessa is wearing a fluffy robe and smells freshly shampooed. Stiles has made her cut her shower short. It's his fault she didn't get to relax the way she wanted to. Alpha Hale and Derek had to go get her to help with Stiles.

Contessa doesn't look the way he imagines a slave might look if she were expected to watch another slave get executed. She says, as if she was prepared to see him in the towel, "I'll wait while you get another pair of pajama pants. Alpha Hale and Derek are in the living room."

"Okay." Stiles feels undead, as if he's speaking after his heart has stopped beating. He walks to the dresser in a measured pace, opens the drawer in a slow daze, removes a pair of pajama pants, smoothes them into a neater fold, then unfolds them and pulls them on. He walks in that same measured pace to the living room door, and when he opens it, Master Derek is there. Stiles forgets to lower his eyes, and stares up at his master's face. He can't read the expression there. Derek's heavy eyebrows are knit, his nostrils flared, and his arms folded. Stiles assumes this is anger, but every time Derek looks like this, so far, nothing comes of it.

"Come on, Stiles," says Contessa, and she puts a hand on his shoulder. He freezes. "Come into the kitchen," she says, and after a second, with a start, he puts one foot forward. She waits, and he walks, and he sits at the kitchen table again because she tells him to. They're not going to kill him _here_. The apartment is too nice and neat, and Master Derek has never been violent to Stiles in any way. Stiles knows now what will happen to him. Dr. Deaton will put him to death by chemical injection. He'll be euthanized.

They probably won't even let Derek go in the room with him when it happens.

He thought that no end to his life could be worse than being beaten to death or having his throat torn out. But being ended by kind Dr. Deaton in a clean, white, chilly room trumps anything Stiles has witnessed or imagined. He wonders what it will feel like. How long it will take. Whether he needs an appointment. They always let him put off appointments. He's seen Deaton twice. Whenever Stiles feels nervous about something, such as seeing the dentist, Dr. Deaton looks at him and says, "It can wait a few weeks," or, "It's not necessary to do it until he feels ready."

It doesn't seem fair to make Dr. Deaton kill Stiles, and then pass on the news of what he did, to Dad, when he gives him Stiles's goodbye letter.

He doesn't want to see Dr. Deaton's face when the shot happens, but Stiles always looks at faces. He licks his chapped lips, and before he can even form a thought as to whether it would be ruder to ask first, or just quietly get up and get a drink, or wait until Derek tells him he can have one, someone gives him a full glass. He gulps almost all of it before he stops, spluttering, and says, "Thank you." He forgot to say thank you when they handed him the glass! There's too much to remember. If he hasn't learned everything by now in his short life, he never will.

Alpha Hale says, "You're welcome."

It was Alpha Hale that offered him the glass. Since when do alpha werewolves serve water to slaves? He's not even sure it's the glass he normally uses. Stiles moves to the sink, to wash the glass, but Master Derek takes it away from him. Stiles returns to the table, crawls underneath, and covers his head with his hands.

"Come on out," says Derek. Stiles comes out from under the table, head hung low. "I think it's better if you come back to bed," says Derek, with a hand on Stiles's bent shoulder. Stiles is trying to curl up on himself while standing and walking. Derek continues, "Let's try this again. I'm putting my arms around you this time. I thought, with how scared you were before, it'd be better if I didn't. It was dumb of me."

Talia is there in bed again, but there's more space this time, a few more inches between her side and Master Derek's. She must be afraid Stiles will attack her again. Stiles tries to give her an apologetic look. He should apologize out loud, but if he does, he will cry, and that will be worse than saying nothing.

Talia tells Stiles, "You don't bite, sweetheart. Use your words to get people to move."

"Mom, he whacked me with his elbow and must have thought he didn't have time to use his words."

"That's different... I didn't see what happened. I take it that he normally knows to use his words, then."

"Stiles uses a lot of words," Master Derek agrees, and cups Stiles's shoulder firmly. Stiles is only a small, sweaty, terrified pillow in the middle of the bed between Alpha mother and son. He's going to live until dawn again because the Hales still haven't killed him. They haven't beaten or fucked him. If they _don't_ decide to kill him, they could sell him. He's healthier than he was when Derek bought him, and might be worth a little more. The Hales are completely honest wolves, so they'll admit to the buyer that Stiles's behavioral problems include biting Alpha Hale.

"Please don't sell me."

Master Derek rubs his wrist firmly against Stiles's temple. "I'm not going to sell you. You're mine. I promise not to sell you."

Stiles grasps at the idea of salvaging something after his out of control behavior. It seems that whenever he tries to gather himself together and be calm and collected, he gets all wobbly and his voice trembles, so he plows ahead with a speech without planning it. "I'm sorry, Master and Alpha Hale. It's not my place to say no. Master Derek, I didn't mean to ask you not to—not to take advantage of me. It won't... it won't happen again." He hopes that helps.

"I don't even know what to say to this. Mom, this is why I called you over here. What am I supposed to do for him?"

Alpha Hale doesn't answer. She speaks to Stiles. "You're a good boy," she says, and then she's _stroking his hair_.

"Mom," Derek whispers, "you're scaring him."

"Just give it a minute," says Alpha Talia Hale.

Stiles can't help feeling drowsy. It's extremely late, and he's spent a lot of energy and thought on flying to pieces. Talia says, low, her breath over his forehead,"It's okay, sweetie."

"Mama," Stiles whimpers, tucking himself closer to her chest, his head on her breastbone. Talia's breath catches, and Stiles notices, but it's too late to take back the word.

Stiles is confused to feel Derek nuzzling the nape of his neck. "I knew you'd want to see her," Derek murmurs in a self-congratulatory tone.

Stiles has it figured out now. The blow to his face, way back in the sale barn when Master Derek was buying him, actually killed him. This is all some kind of hallucination before the end. Will it get worse? Better? Can he just dissolve into oblivion now? He tries, and, no, he can't. He shakes all over, his eyes shut tight, he whimpers, but his soul doesn't leave his body.

Stiles does not believe in testing werewolves' goodwill, most especially when it comes to alphas. He isn't meaning to test her. He needs to get this over with. "Mama," he repeats, and sneaks an arm around the back of Talia's neck.

Talia doesn't say anything. She's motionless under Stiles's arm, long enough for him to realize that, even though Talia is curved, soft and pleasant to look upon, she can, and will, now, snap him like the pathetic human twig that he is. She puts her hand on Stiles's back and presses him closer in to herself. Derek makes a low, rumbling sound.

Stiles feels a tiny touch on his temple. He has to think it through before realizing for certain that Talia gave him a little kiss. Stiles is exhausted, angry and fed up with feeling fear. He frowns and knits his brows at himself. If they're going to punish him, he wishes they would just do it. That thought is getting stale. He's tired of thinking it. But what if he stops thinking about it? They could take him by surprise. "Don't take me by surprise," he almost wails. Talia makes a sound in her throat.

"Mama," he says again, and takes the collar of her blouse in his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he cries with his tear-stained cheek at her chin, and she takes his wrists calmly, and looks at him.

"Stiles."

"I can't," he gasps, "I can't do it. I can't be good. I can't. Please."

"Do you want me to call the doctor for you, to get you something to help you sleep?"

Horror chills him and he can't seem to decide between sobbing and jolting upright. "No... I don't..."

"Alpha, I don't think he feels safe sleeping with drugs of any kind in him, when he's been so afraid of me."

"Of course," says Talia. "Never mind, Stiles, question withdrawn."

********


	13. Night at the Lake

********

Derek handles the coffee and breakfast in the morning. He wakes Stiles gently and tells him he doesn't have to do anything. Stiles is too tired to worry about it. Contessa and Alpha Hale are there for breakfast. He hears them giggling together in the kitchen.

Master Derek says that Stiles should come to the table in his robe. Stiles knows his eyes are puffy, his face a blotchy red and white. He eats his hash browns in tiny bites and sneaks looks at Alpha Hale. The women are leaving right after breakfast. If Stiles doesn't speak up quickly, he'll lose his chance to beg forgiveness of her. But he can't think of the right word for how he behaved last night. "Rude" isn't quite it, but it's the best he can think of on short notice. He chases them to the door while they get their car coats on. "Alpha Hale, I'm sorry for saying—for calling you—for being too... disrespectful? I can't think of the word, but I'm sorry. For talking to you that way."

"Why, what did you say?" Contessa asks, her hand on the doorknob.

"I called her—not Alpha."

Talia's eyes crinkle up in a smile and she squishes Stiles's cheeks with her thumbs. "Oh... I thought you were talking about the nip you gave me. If you're talking about calling me Mama, I don't mind a bit. And you can be my boy, okay?"

"Oh, is that all?" puts in Master Derek, who has been confused during Stiles's attempted forgiveness-asking. "Then the word you want is 'familiar'."

"Yes. Yeah. That."

Contessa has passed through the doorway, but sticks her head back in. "You don't have to worry about that in this family!"

Master Derek takes the day off from work. He takes Stiles into the shower as soon as Alpha Hale and Contessa leave. Stiles doesn't get turned on, and he keeps his ass and his dick away from Master Derek as much as possible.

The marking makes Stiles feel secure, but all the same, after he's dressed, he makes a pest of himself, clinging to Derek. He changes tasks to place himself in whatever room Derek is in, drifting closer until he bumps into him. Derek doesn't seem to mind. Sometimes he leans over and smells Stiles.

Stiles makes up his mind to put a stop to the difficulties with the drinking glasses. Master Derek has had him practicing buying things online with his very own credit card. Stiles has been too afraid to do it by himself. He only spends his allowance when Derek tells him he should buy a new book for himself, suggests which few he might choose from, then helps him type the information. "May I use my money to buy something?"

Derek looks surprised. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Do you want to know what I'm buying?"

"I don't need to know. It's your money." After a moment Master Derek adds, "but if you want to tell me, that's fine too. You don't _have_ to tell me."

"Okay." Stiles tries to go ahead without further discussion, but he's really not ready to buy something on his own without asking first, especially after the mess of emotions trailing him from last night. He gets his tablet and shows Master Derek the picture in the online homewares catalogue. "I'm buying these. Is that okay? They'll be delivered to the lobby, you don't have to let anybody up here."

Derek peers at the shopping website. "Drinking glasses?"

Stiles nods rapidly.

Derek shrugs. "Whatever you want. It's about lunchtime. We could bake a pizza and watch a movie."

Stiles has never seen a movie—or, wait, he has, once. As a little child. They showed a _Lassie_ movie for all the kids, slaves included, in the "good" yard, that is, the yard with a lawn and a big white fountain that was used only for decoration, not for drinking out of. Stiles had trouble sitting still, but other children on either side of him helped by squeezing up against him. He misses them suddenly. He asks Master Derek, "You watch movies?"

"I don't usually. But it's a way to relax, and I thought we could use it."

"Okay."

"That's what you want? A movie?"

"Yes, thank you, Master."

"Okay."

Derek plays a fantasy movie, with lots of horses and swords. The horses and people have steamy breath; it must have been cold wherever they made the movie. Derek lets Stiles kneel on the living room floor the whole time, with the movie playing on the computer on the coffee table. He keeps reaching down and rubbing his wrist over Stiles's hair. Stiles tips his neck to lean up into the pressure and mingle their scents.

Over omelets at the supper table, Stiles starts a conversation. "It must be harder for wolves."

"What must?"

"Um. Being. What happened—what Kate did. Kate Argent. She... what she did, when she took you, it must be harder for wolves."

Master Derek's brows knit when Kate is mentioned, and he scans the counter from his chair, as if he's looking for something. Stiles asks, "What can I get you?"

Derek shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Okay. So I'm um, I'm sorry. For what happened to you."

"Why do you say it's harder for wolves?"

"Because." Stiles jitters his leg, afraid he's stating the obvious. "Werewolves aren't meant to be treated that way."

Derek says savagely, "No one is," and stabs at a piece of green pepper with his fork.

He stays at the table while Stiles cleans up. Stiles is putting dishes away when Derek speaks. "It wasn't just her."

Stiles glances over his shoulder. Master Derek is staring at the floor. He's pushed his chair back slightly, and set one knee out to the side, so he's partially facing Stiles, but he doesn't look up at him, and doesn't say anything else. "I beg your pardon, Master? I'm sorry, did you mean to speak to me, or—"

Master Derek repeats, "It wasn't just her."

"You mean, it wasn't just Kate?"

"It started out just her. Only her. Then she started bringing her friends."

When he realizes what Derek is saying, Stiles drops the stoneware peacock plate he was lifting into the cabinet, and it strikes the edge of the counter on the way to the floor. In the moment when Stiles is about to lean down to grab the plate and assess the damage, he abandons it and goes to Master Derek. His instinct is to kneel at Master Derek's feet, and he starts to go down. Then he remembers, grabs a chair and slides it over by Derek.

"For a long time it was just Kate. Every time she left me there I thought she had really _left me_. I tried to escape, but it never worked. Maybe if I had tried hurting myself worse, if I hadn't been so careful with myself, if I hadn't been so weak... I could never even work up a good howl to call for help. I don't know how long that went on. A long time. Then she brought some of her friends to see me." Derek rubs a hand down his face and sighs. "I wasn't able to see very well. My sense of smell was all fucked up, because of the wolfsbane. I wouldn’t know those people if I met them again."

Stiles stretches out a hand toward Master Derek, and when he doesn't pull back, Stiles squeezes his hand; timidly, at first, then harder. "They'd recognize you, and run. Not one of those people would lay a finger on you without _her_ to start something."

"That's what Uncle Peter says. He had already killed Kate. It was too late to make her give him their names. He did track down some of Kate's known friends and spread some bloody revenge and warnings around. He did his best. But they could be anyone. What if they want more of what she started? I keep telling myself I'm so careful, that's why nobody from that group, anyone Uncle Peter didn't get to, that's why they haven't gotten me, because I'm careful. So I keep being careful."

Stiles leans farther over in his chair and hugs Master Derek's knees. "Do you want to look at pictures on the Internet?"

Master Derek answers slowly. "Yes. I would like that."

They watch videos of baby animals frolicking. They hold a frolicking contest: Master Derek feels that baby monkeys win, but Stiles thinks that foals frolic the hardest.

Stiles goes later to pick up the plate he dropped, and it's only chipped, not cracked nor broken. Chipped counts as broken in some households, though in kitchen training they would still use it. "Master, I hate to bother you with this, but I chipped this plate. See, here. Do you want me to throw it in the trash, or keep it as a slave plate?"

"That's barely chipped. We can still use it."

In bed that night, in the dark, Stiles is facing Master Derek, hips carefully angled so he won't accidentally brush against Derek with his crotch. Derek lightly grasps Stiles's wrist. Stiles wasn't going to touch, but with that encouragement, his fingers work their way under Derek's arm and curl up over his ribs. "I'm sorry Kate Argent tricked you. That wasn't fair. If you hadn't been tricked, no way a human could kidnap you."

"I thought she liked me."

"She _should_ have liked you," Stiles says stoutly.

"Do you?"

"Yes." Stiles nuzzles into Derek's chest. It occurs to him to add, "I mean really. I'm not tricking you."

Master Derek touches Stiles's hair. His voice sounds as if he might be smiling. "I know you aren't tricking me. You're nothing like Kate."

Master Derek won't leave Stiles alone the next day, but he has to go back to work. He makes a call, and doesn't stop talking for a long time. If the person on the other end is trying to say anything, they're getting talked over. "I hate to ask you this. I want to send Stiles over. I can't—you know I can't have anyone up here to stay with him. He's been—I won't go into it, but he had a rough time the other night and I don't want to just leave him alone. It's for an entire day, I don't want to put you to any trouble, but I don't think it would work to take him to the office with me. I can't have him stare at his tablet all day... yes, one of my—I mean, one of Peter's drivers can bring him, but this is for a whole day, you have to put him to some kind of work, I feel bad putting you out like this—" Finally Master Derek stops and listens. "Thank you." He puts his phone away and turns to Stiles. "You're going to visit Scott. Master Damon says they'll be thoroughly delighted to have you."

Stiles is worried about spending a whole day in that expensive place. He brings his finger knitting, in case he has to stay out of Scott's way.

Scott himself answers the door at the slaves' entrance. "Don't worry," he says, before Stiles has even said hello. "The butler fixed my schedule so we'll be polishing silver. You can't break or hurt anything. I'll teach you, it's easy."

Stiles and Scott both wear aprons to polish the silver. Stiles doesn't want to part with his when they're done. Scott takes it from him and hangs it up. "You don't need an apron to go out and see the goldfish pond."

The pond has real islands connected by stone bridges, and miniature houses that come up to Stiles's hip. Scott gives Stiles a pellet to feed to one of the enormous, tame goldfish. Stiles feels the pull of the water when the fish sucks in the pellet. "Can I ask you something?"

Scott looks up from making ripples in the water to attract the fish. "Sure."

"Does your master have, like, _all_ the fancy things?"

Scott laughs. "Yes, he does."

********

At Master Duke's, there were always so many werewolves around that if Stiles dropped something, somebody's werewolf reflexes stopped it from hitting the floor. He destroyed some things when he was very small, but the wolves visiting Master Duke tended to do a lot more damage than Stiles ever did. And it didn't seem to make a difference who broke something—nobody got angrier if a slave did it than if a wolf did it.

"You're not enough werewolves," Stiles complains when he almost breaks a glass. He catches it himself, but bangs his elbow in the process.

"How do you mean?" Master Derek is reading a book at the kitchen table.

Stiles rubs his elbow. "You're not _enough_. There were so many wolves at—" He stops. Theo Raeken became outraged when he heard Stiles mention being homesick.

Derek looks up then. "At?"

Stiles frowns at the guilty drinking glass and mumbles, "If there were more wolves here, somebody's reflexes would have caught it."

"If you're talking about Duke's, there are never going to be that many wolves here." Derek gives Stiles a mischievous look. "Anyway, your reflexes caught it."

Stiles sputters, "My elbow paid the price!" He recalls himself and answers, "Yes, that's true, Master." He's fighting a smile as he says it.

Stiles is afraid to get into bed. He hasn't felt any arousal since two nights ago when he freaked out, and he hasn't touched himself since then. He's afraid that if he's relaxed enough, the same thing will happen again.

Stiles hesitates as he climbs in, one knee on the edge of the bed. "I didn't mean—the other night." He gestures vigorously and tries again: "To do—that. With my—I didn't mean to grab you and do anything— _intimate_ —to you, I didn't think ahead, I should have controlled myself, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it."

"You didn't hurt me. I'm sorry you got so frightened. Do you need to shower by yourself, before bed?"

Stiles can't tell whether this is a real question or an order. He doesn't want to touch himself, especially with how panicked he was last time fresh on his mind. He's afraid that if he can't control his sounds, then he'll react as badly as he did before, and Derek will call Alpha Hale again. But Stiles is also afraid that he's going to get an erection as soon as Master Derek holds him, and Derek will notice and be offended. Stiles looks toward the bathroom but doesn't move. Derek adds, "You have permission to leave the bed anytime you need to. You don't need to wait for me to wake up, and you don't need to ask. Just get up and go, anytime."

That sounds like Master Derek means Stiles doesn't _have_ to shower by himself right now, so he finishes climbing into bed. Derek puts his arms around him right away. Stiles relaxes. He doesn't get an erection. He lies awake, and after a while he reaches up and lightly plays with the hair on Master Derek's forearm.

********

Master Derek, in the kitchen, raises his voice to be heard in the next room. "Stiles, where are the gummy bears?"

Stiles speaks at a normal volume, because if Derek's listening, he can hear him anywhere inside the apartment or out in the hall. "You ate them, Master." 

Derek yells back, "All of them?"

"Yes, Master."

"Will you help me look in the kitchen anyway?"

Stiles drops what he's doing and goes to look, in the usual places and unusual places (on top of the refrigerator and microwave cabinet, and inside the microwave). Eventually, he pulls the kitchen trash can out from under the sink and points to a clear plastic gummy bear bag.

"But you put them in a bowl for me," Derek reminds him plaintively. "Where's the bowl?"

With a sympathetic expression, Stiles pulls the clean, cut-glass candy bowl and lid from the cupboard above the sink. "Empty."

Derek sags. He pulls out a kitchen chair, sits in it, folds his arms, makes a V of his eyebrows and puts out his lower lip. "I just wanted gummy bears."

"May I help in some way?"

Master Derek grunts. Stiles can't tell if this is an affirmative or a negative reply. He hovers in task-limbo, uncertain how long to wait for clarification before returning to what he was doing.

After a while, Derek speaks. "Know what's really annoying?"

"No. What? Hopefully not something I did wrong."

"No, it's not always something you did wrong. That's not the definition of a problem."

"I'm sorry... what is it that is troubling you, Master?"

"That I'm too socially phobic to go pick up some stuff at the store."

"Master, I can call the store, and they'll send the stuff you missed."

"You have to have your order in by four if you want it the same day."

"Okay. Do you want me to... shop?"

"You sure you want to go?"

"I'm your personal slave! That's what I'm here for. Send me."

"It's not a survival thing. I just want some stuff. I didn't think I needed gummy bears this week. And now I don't have them, and I hate myself because I can't just run down there and—"

Stiles interrupts. "But I can run down!"

"So you want to go?"

"Please tell me what you want me to buy, or make me a list."

"I mainly want gummy bears. It's too silly to go to the store for only gummy bears."

"You keep telling me that Peter's drivers are always looking for something to do. And so am I. Please send me. I'd love to get out. I mean if you—if you want me to go."

Master Derek ends up making an extensive list to hide the fact he's having one of Peter's drivers take Stiles to the store merely for gummy bears. He sends it to Stiles's phone. "Add anything you want on there."

Stiles freezes. Not every trouble is met by flailing. He can't add anything he wants to the list. He doesn't know of anything he wants, not things he could buy at a store. "Um."

"What? Anything you want, you don't have to ask me first."

Stiles says, almost inaudibly, "I don't know of anything I want."

"Okay, then, just get what's on the list. But those butter toffee pistachios you seem to like are almost gone. You want some more?"

"Yes, Master." Stiles adds it to the list and wonders if one day he will be expected to know, by himself, without help, of things he wants from the grocery store. But he doesn't have to worry about it right now. He asks what he should wear, and gets dressed.

Derek gives him a good sniffing, to make sure he's marked up enough to go out in public. "Don't take longer than forty-five minutes or I'm calling the driver to go in the store and get you." Stiles sets his watch and goes.

Stiles could explore the aisles and, if he has any trouble, call Master Derek or ask the driver for help. But he expects to be called upon to shop again in the future. He might as well learn now how to do it the most efficient way. Stiles goes up to the nearest employee and shows her the list. "I'm not an experienced shopper," he says. "Can you please help me fill this order?"

The clerk calls a stock boy to help Stiles. Stiles watches the boy's every move while he's selecting the items on the list, so he'll be able to shop without help in the future. He's back home in about half an hour, the ride there and back included.

Master Derek looks at him as if he can't quite figure out how he pulled off a diverting magic trick. "That was fast."

"May I go to the store again, sometime?"

"Yes," says Derek, scowling.

"Did I do something wrong?"

" _No_. You did not do something wrong! I just fucking wish I could go to the grocery store once in a while."

"It's okay. You don't have to. That's why you have me."

"But I want to be able to."

"Why... what happens if you go to the store?"

Derek sulks and doesn't answer. Stiles puts away the groceries, and Derek follows him around the kitchen, opening the drawers and cupboards Stiles has just put things into, looking at the items and then slamming the drawers and cupboards. Stiles thinks Master Derek is checking his work awfully loudly.

"I'm slamming things because I'm frustrated with myself. It's so embarrassing. But you might see me panic someday, so you might as well know. You know how, when _you_ get afraid, you flail around, and hyperventilate, and sometimes break things?"

"Yes. Sorry about that, Master."

"Don't apologize. Anyway, I don't flail. I freeze. I become immovable. People who don't know me really well don't understand what's wrong with me. It's the most humiliating thing. Especially when I can talk, but I can't move. And I refuse out loud, using my words, to move. It looks like I'm sulking."

"But you work for your Uncle Peter."

"I know all the people at the office now. They know if I freeze that I'm really panicking. I'm a big, fat waste of everyone's time." 

"Don't talk about yourself like that."

"Don't tell me how to talk and how not to talk."

"I'm sorry."

"You're apologizing again."

"No, I'm not. I mean I'm sorry, for you. I'm sorry."

"Oh. Thanks. You can do the thing with the gummy bears for me."

Stiles fills the glass bowl with bears and sets the lid aside. Master Derek likes his gummy bears a tiny bit dry.

********

"A couple of times a year my family puts me in a car, takes me to a lake, and makes me run around and eat cooked-out food. I'm telling you this because we're going this weekend. I'll tell you what to pack. We stay overnight one night, and yes, you will be sleeping with me."

"Okay." 

Stiles cooks chopped steaks for supper. During the meal, his heel jitters up and down under his chair, and in between bites he taps his fork on his plate. He messes around with the placement of his water glass. Eventually Master Derek uses his eyebrows to look at him.

Stiles is having a hard time working up some words. He chews another mouthful, swallows some water, and stutters, "I'd like to see the lake."

"Yep."

"But um—"

Master Derek looks at him full on, eyebrows lifted.

"Yeah, um," Stiles continues. "I've been to—I've been to these outdoor, these things, outdoor entertainments? For werewolf masters." He takes a shaky breath. Master Derek is still staring at him. "So my point is, I cooked, see, outdoors? At these things? For wolves? And I should warn you that sometimes it was very dusty outside and dust and grit got into the food. You know."

Master Derek's expression turns intense. Stiles cringes.

"Goddamnit, Stiles, I'm not mad at you."

Stiles's hand shakes, but it's his non-utensil hand, so he doesn't spill anything.

Derek says again, "Goddamnit," and runs the heel of his hand over his forehead and through his hair, spiking it up. "You're not going to get punished for dirt getting in the food, _outside_. It's not your fault that Nature exists."

"Thank you for saying so."

Master Derek huffs. "You're coming along to keep me company. Also, two things: it's not that dusty at the lake. It's more pebbly and grassy. Sometimes buggy. And Peter and Contessa are both going to be there, so good luck getting near the grill anyway. Contessa has become obsessed with creating the perfect pineapple upside-down cake on a grill."

"Okay. " Stiles has no further questions about the weekend. He finishes his supper, and cleans up the kitchen.

One of Peter's drivers takes Stiles the next day to buy shoes that are appropriate for visiting the lake. Master Derek orders him to pick out his own clothes when it's time to pack. It's not as bad as it sounds, because Master Derek lays out several outfits, all put together already, down to socks, and tells him to pick his favorites. Stiles picks out T-shirts and slacks, and shorts because Derek says it might be warm this weekend. Master Derek praises his choices.

Stiles is nervous after the clothes choosing is over, shaky, as if it might all fall apart, and he has to remind himself over and over that choosing the clothes went fine, that he didn't do anything wrong. Derek also gives him a windbreaker and a hoodie, in case he needs layers.

The drive up to the lake is long and the motor humming on the highway is soothing. Shadowy trees and ditches full of long grass go by outside the window, and once Stiles sees a coyote. He tries to point it out to Master Derek, but it's ghosted off into the woods before he can even get Derek's attention. Master Derek is listening to headphones.

The car climbs a long, slow hill, and the road turns to gravel. The trees and shrubs get bushier and closer together, then the gravel turns from tan to reddish pink. Other cars that brought members of the Hale pack are parked at random angles to each other, their fresh tire tracks crossing limp grasses, and there are tents and a cabin. Stiles can't see the lake from here. A path leads down among some sparse pines, into mowed grass.

Stiles grabs his bag and gets out to help Master Derek with his things, looks up, stops and stares, flabbergasted at the multicolored walls of rock topped in pine trees. Stiles asks how the rock walls got that way, and Master Derek says he isn't sure. "Look up California geology on the Internet when we get home."

Master Derek handles his own luggage, and dismisses Stiles. Stiles goes to see the lake right away. Halfway down the gradual slope, Peter is lounging in a redwood chair. On the thin grass next to him lies a massive, fully-shifted werewolf.

"Hello, Stiles. Roy, this is Stiles, Derek's boy. This is Roy, my personal slave."

Roy sits up slowly. He's missing one of his rear legs. His left forepaw is partially human hand-shaped, with long, clawed fingers. Stiles asks, "The Hales keep werewolves as slaves?"

Peter answers, "Well. I keep this one. I won't speak for the other Hales."

Stiles fears he may have said something that hurt Roy's feelings. His question might have made it sound as if Stiles doesn't approve of werewolf slaves. "Pleased to meet you." He holds out his hand to shake, and Roy shakes with his fully-shifted right paw. Stiles clarifies his position: "Werewolf slaves are great. Scott McCall is great."

Roy, still with his paw in Stiles's hand, turns toward Peter and pricks his grey-brown ears.

"Master Damon's boy—the footman," Peter reminds him. "The one whom I Bit."

Roy turns to Stiles again, parts his jaws and lets his tongue stick out a little. It looks like a smile. Stiles smiles back and kneels on the grass near him.

Stiles only looks at the lake from the picnic area. He can hear and see the dappled olive green water perfectly well, and doesn't want to get any closer. Contessa brings him a pebble from the lake. He plays with it, thinking that it's the strangest thing ever, that there are so many smooth, wave-tossed pebbles down there in the lake.

Peter makes a dozen pizzas, three at a time, on the closed grill for supper. He gives Stiles six sausage garlic slices, one after the other, and is handing him another when Master Derek makes him stop. Contessa gives Stiles a strawberry-yogurt-milk smoothie, with an ice cube.

When it's time for bed, Master Derek shows Stiles a tiny, stone cottage hidden in a thick stand of pines. "I like to sleep on the floor in here, in a sleeping bag. But I didn't think... I never need a lantern. You can't see in the dark."

"That won't matter, Master. I never had a lantern in any of my other places, when I slept out in the slave houses."

The inside of Master Derek's sleeping bag is soft as a new sweatshirt. The hard floor presses through it against Stiles's hip. His cheek is pillowed on Derek's arm.

"Did your Uncle Peter Bite Roy?"

"No."

"Is Roy a born werewolf?"

"He's a born werewolf, but he's from a family of human slaves. Or what everyone thought were human slaves."

"Was he a werewolf when Peter bought him?"

"Yeah."

"But how did Peter find him? Did somebody actually put up a werewolf for sale?"

"Roy's owners didn't know he was a born werewolf until he shifted the first time, I think when he was around twelve. They couldn't sell him, so they entered him in stock car races. He was in a wreck that would have killed a human. They found his hand and put it back on, but it doesn't shift right. And they never found his leg. So they retired him. Uncle Peter bought this lot of slaves... some of them were very healthy and valuable, and Peter knew he could sell them individually for higher prices than he paid for them. A bunch of them were burnt-out, or scarred-up—sorry, I mean—there's nothing wrong with scars. Anyway, these slaves had been badly injured or worn out. Peter had to take all of them or none of them. So he bought all of them and sorted them out. And uses Roy for a personal slave. For some reason."

"Don't you like him?"

"I like Roy just fine. Listen to the frogs cheeping outside, and go to sleep."

********


	14. Iron Cross Begonia

********

Talia and Derek are sitting on the couch. Stiles is on the loveseat, but he can't sit still. He tries to make his fidgeting very slow and subtle.

"Honey, look at him. You have to let Stiles have a job."

"Thank God," says Stiles.

"He can clean the lampshades, I guess. I haven't had him do that yet. You want to, Stiles?"

Stiles is already jumping up to do it. By now he has determined that the "want to" tacked onto every other order Master Derek gives him does not mean that Stiles has to examine his emotions about the task at hand. He'll take the lampshades out of the room one at a time. There are only two lamps in the living room, so he interprets the command as including the bedroom lamps, in both the spare and master bedrooms, so the job will last longer. Stiles turns off the nearest lamp and removes the shade as Talia goes on, "Not a task, Derek. A job. During the day."

"He grocery shops sometimes."

Alpha Hale takes Master Derek's hand. "I know that's a difficult job for you. But is it enough work for Stiles to tire him out and keep him from going stir crazy the rest of the time?"

Derek doesn't answer for a long time. Finally he says, "What would you suggest?"

Stiles takes the lampshade out of the room and takes his time brushing it. When he comes back, he's informed that he's going to work for Peter in his warehouse two days a week. Stiles knows that Peter has an office and a warehouse, and owns a company, something... something like Peter Hale's Extremely Nice Shirts and Coats for Men. Something like that, anyway.

Several days pass between this announcement and the beginning of his job, and Stiles gets a little more afraid each day. Even with the best marking Master Derek can give him, Stiles is worried he won't smell enough like him to be protected for so many hours in a strange place. What can he do to make sure he smells more like Derek? Just before they leave for Stiles's uniform fitting at the warehouse, he delves into the unwashed laundry and comes up with a pair of Master Derek's socks. He replaces his own with those, and feels much better.

Master Derek checks him for scent at the door to the hall, backs off and gives Stiles a strange look, crouches down and sniffs closely. He stands and points at Stiles's feet. "Are those my socks?"

"Yes, yes they are. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, please don't kill me."

Master Derek does a scary brow-knit. "Why would I kill you? I'm never going to kill you!"

Stiles is sorry that he offended Master Derek, and that he insulted him by questioning his gentleness. That's how he _feels_ , but that's not what comes out of his mouth. He flings his arms wide. "Augh! Oh my God! I know you won't kill me! I get that! It just slipped out okay!"

"What is wrong with you?"

"There's nothing wrong with me. There's something wrong with you! I don't understand this—this _Hale pack!_ I especially don't understand _you_." Stiles points a finger at his master, which is a good way to get a finger severed by teeth. He pulls his finger back and curls his hands together. What's Derek going to do now? In previous places Stiles might have been smacked, or put someplace by himself for a long while, without his next meal, to think about his manners.

Master Derek looks surprised for a moment, then laughs. "Yeah. We're kinda out there."

"I understand that you won't kill me. I'm sorry to be so insulting and I'm sorry that I offended you, Master. But I took the socks without permission."

"You're fine. You're safe. Don't worry. You have my permission to wear my socks all the time."

Stiles is chewing his thumbnail. "Thank you, Master."

"Or—wait. I'm getting the hang of this. Now you'll think you have to wear my socks all the time." Derek searches for words. "Stiles, wear my socks at your discretion."

********

Stiles and Master Derek are standing in the office of Peter Hale's warehouse. Stiles is dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, and is terrified. Normal levels of terror, nothing too out of the ordinary. That is, until Peter smirks at the way Stiles doesn't quite fit into what should be the correct size of uniform. "When will you learn to buy a slave for conformation, nephew? This one looks like the stray you take in before you get a decent purebred dog." That Master Derek is offended is obvious from his face, but it means nothing to Stiles until Peter adds, "You'll get the hang of it. The next one you buy will be prettier."

Stiles's mouth drops open and, in the absence of anything to grab, his hands reach behind him and open and shut, with nothing to hold but his own palms. Peter is no longer looking at him, but he says, as smoothly as if Stiles had a made a coherent, verbal comment: "Stiles, I see that you misunderstand me. Derek is not intending to sell you. I was referring to his second slave in addition to you, not in place of you."

It's too late. Stiles's imagination is already up and running. It was gone the moment Peter said “next one”. Stiles's mind is torn between controlling his physical panic and stopping the images of slave barns cropping up in a nightmare storyline of being sold off again. He has to stomp down on the words that want to come out of his throat. He's in real danger of losing his temper at Peter enough to flash out, "Don't _scare_ me like that!" And he can't make it stay in. He says it out loud.

Master Derek gives Stiles a startled look. Peter rises and moves across the office.

"I'm sorry I know I deserve to be hit across the face I didn't mean to say it out loud I'm so sorry... I'm sorry, I should have known you wouldn't hit me, I shouldn't have thought you would, that's so stupid of me."

"Talkative little thing, isn't he?" Peter says, in that same weirdly amiable tone in which he says nearly everything, as if he doesn't mind at all, as if he's saying _Your dog is yappy_.

"I'm sorry, I'll shut up, I'm trying to turn off the motormouth really seriously, I'm sorry I got angry, I'm sorry I'm still talking, I'll stop." And, somehow, miraculously, he does stop. But then leftover energy starts to move inside him, which means Stiles's body begins to move around. He needs to grab or press up against something, but there's nothing to grab. To hold the back of a chair he'd have to step past Peter, toward the office manager's desk. Peter and Master Derek made him stand here, where there's nothing. 

Peter picks up a package of shirt samples from the desk and thrusts it into Stiles's arms with an offhand, "Hold this and stand still." He perches on the corner of the desk in the spot where the shirts were, and keeps talking to Derek. Stiles clutches the life-preserving package of samples.

Peter mentions to Derek that he sold off a whole lot of slaves he recently bought, including one he thought Derek would like, to some human owners. 

"I'm not a good enough slave owner to use one of those quality, highly-trained boys, anyway," says Derek. Stiles suppresses an indignant sound—Master Derek is a fine slave owner. Derek goes on, "And they're always so quiet. Stiles is perfect."

"You would have liked the boy I picked," says Peter. "Admittedly, he is quiet. Also, he's prettier and tougher than Stiles. And taller. But your stubbornness got Stiles out of a bad spot, so I suppose I can't complain."

********

Master Derek works in the main office, two blocks away from the warehouse. The first several times Stiles goes to work, Master Derek gets ready earlier than usual, and goes in the car with him. Derek starts work an hour later than Stiles does, and doubles back to the main office after seeing Stiles into the warehouse.

Every time Peter sees Stiles, he says, "Here comes the stray puppy."

"You can't call him an animal, Uncle Peter. It's not okay with me, it's not right, and he's _my_ slave."

Stiles is afraid Peter will give in, because Master Derek is right. He should have control over Stiles's life, so Peter should do as Derek asks. But Stiles has a way to possibly influence Master Derek. Stiles has begun to absorb the idea that the Hales, as one of their peculiarities, believe that slaves should be taught to think of themselves as part of the family. Stiles very much wants to be Peter's "stray puppy," and he wants to please Master Derek. So the next time Peter says, "Here comes the stray puppy for his shift," and Master Derek looks miffed and says through his teeth, "His name is Stiles," Stiles asks Peter for a hug.

Having received one—as a bonus to this plan, it felt genuine and warm—Stiles says, "Thank you, Uncle Peter," and watches Derek out of the corner of his eye.

Derek melts. Putty in Stiles's stray puppy paws. Success. The "family" theory appears to be correct.

Every morning at the warehouse big, flat cardboard boxes arrive, full of disorganized, unwrapped shirts. Stiles doesn't have to iron them, thank goodness; that's somebody else's specialty. Stiles folds the shirts, wraps them in cellophane, and places them according to color in a set of slanting, open-topped cubbies. The slaves who pack the orders come and pick out the shirts, searching for them by color. Then Stiles has to sweep and clean. Peter adheres to that quirky Hale habit of paying slaves to do stuff, so Stiles is less bored _and_ richer since beginning to work for Uncle Peter.

********

Derek has his arm over Stiles in bed. Stiles feels Master Derek's partial erection against his own ass, which makes him powerfully turned on, but he took care of himself in the shower earlier and he's able to hold that thought until he can jerk off the next day.

Master Derek asks, "Is there anything you want that you don't have? Anything I can get you?"

"My dad." It slips out before Stiles can think.

"Your dad? Do you know where he is?"

"No."

"I could get Peter to try and find out for you. Peter could buy him."

Stiles will give away as many secrets as his mouth can physically give away before he can stop it, so he has to be careful. For instance, by planning ahead before he mentions his dad to Master Derek. So, that's something he should have done. The difficulty is that the more Derek knows about Stiles's dad, the more he'll know about Duke, and the one thing Dad asked Stiles to do before they parted was to be careful with secrets about his old master. Stiles considers: he can't give away information he doesn't have. He hasn't the faintest idea where Duke is hiding, and only guesses that he's a patient of Dr. Deaton. That's the one thing he must not say. "My dad already has an owner—I mean, I'm sure he's not for sale."

"You know for sure he has a master, but you don't know where he is?"

"I might get a letter from him sometime. I know someone who's going to tell him where I am. That person told me that—that you won't read my mail."

"Of course I won't. But you want more than a letter, don't you?"

Stiles clasps his hands and makes himself small. "Yes."

"You should have said something before this. You don't have any idea who your father's owner is?"

"We were part of Deucalion's household before the big attack when those people threw him out."

"Is your dad still living there with those humans?"

"I don't think so." Stiles has almost told a lie. He knows his father isn't at the old place. It makes it worse that he already omitted Dr. Deaton's name.

"Why are you so scared? Are you okay? You smell way more nervous than you should. And your heartbeat is getting loud."

"No, no, just forget I said anything."

"You sound and smell like you're deceiving me. I can't believe it, though. That's not like you."

Stiles tries to get away from Master Derek's hold on him. It's a pointless exercise—he's just going to fall off the bed, which he does—and then sit on the floor because getting up and running from a wolf is futile. Stiles is the worst at keeping secrets. He cries out, "My dad is running with Deucalion and they're hiding but I don't know where they are, I don't. I really don't."

"Okay. Calm down."

Stiles twists his fingers together. "I'm sorry. I'm loyal to you. I didn't mean to be dishonest! I was trying to protect them."

"Stiles, you haven't given anything away. I mean, you have, but nobody's going to hurt Duke because of it, okay?"

Stiles sniffles. "Have you met him?"

"Yes. Once, when I was younger, he came along to the lake. We played tag."

The fear and tension go out of Stiles. Maybe because his body just can't keep this up, or maybe because he really believes Master Derek. He climbs back up on the bed. "Derek. Master. If I got to meet my dad once, and he hugged me, and I came back smelling like Deucalion because Dad smells like him, would you hunt down Deucalion and try to kill him? Would you hurt him? Would your pack gang up on him?"

"No. I certainly wouldn't want to corner Deucalion, even in a 'gang'."

"But... but... okay, but like, what if people who have hits out on him, what if they ask you if you've heard about him, would you tell them that my dad is with him and that Dr. Deaton—"

"I wouldn't tell anyone anything. I'm fairly sure that my mother would disapprove of my saying anything. The Hales are officially neutral, and I... don't even know for sure what that means. I didn't care, to begin with. I didn't expect to see Deucalion again after those humans attacked his house. You realize you mentioned Deaton by name?"

Stiles cringes and nods.

Master Derek lightly takes hold of Stiles above the elbow and rubs his arm with his thumb. "I don't want to push an issue that you wanted to keep confidential, but if Dr. Deaton is the go-between you mentioned earlier, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. I'm guessing he's treated Deucalion for wounds, which would make Duke his patient, and he's never going to betray a patient. And you're also his patient, so he won't do anything to hurt you, either. But until I know more, just don't contact Duke. You can get in touch with your dad at Dr. Deaton's, but your dad can't come near you any other time. I don't want you involved with any hunting contracts out on anybody. Got it?"

"Yes, yes. I got it."

"Good."

"Thank you, Master Derek. Thank you so much. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

********

Derek comes home late one afternoon, and gives Stiles the gift of a small house plant. The plant has pebbly, bristly, blue-green leaves with broad, brown patterns on them.

Stiles is overcome. "How do I keep it alive?"

"I'm not sure. I thought you'd like it."

"I love it!"

Derek gives him an uncertain smile. "Okay."

Stiles, with permission, finds a plant forum on the internet and asks many questions. The forum members want to know what kind of plant it is. Stiles tries to describe it, but finds out that he doesn't really know how to describe plants. The forum members tell him that based on the details he gave, it could possibly be a begonia of some kind. They say that if he posts a picture, they can help.

"Master Derek, may I put a photo of my plant on a public forum?"

"Stiles, you can post naked pictures of your houseplant anywhere you like, to your heart's content."

Stiles has a camera Uncle Peter gave him as a gift, because of the teen photography club. He looks up how to photograph plants. You're supposed to use natural light, so he asks Master Derek to check him for scent, then takes his plant down in the elevator and out in the yard to photograph it.

He finds out from the forum that his plant is _Begonia masoniana_ , an Iron Cross Begonia. He jumps up as soon as he has an answer and lets Derek know. Master Derek is suitably impressed. "Did I pick out a good house plant?"

Stiles can't conceive of a "bad" house plant, especially as selected by Master Derek, so he says, "It's an amazing house plant." He establishes the Iron Cross Begonia on the windowsill in the spare room.

One day, while Stiles is examining his begonia for mites, to which the Internet says they are prone, Master Derek stands behind him for a minute, then asks, "Stiles, would you like more to do?"

Stiles looks up. "What would you like me to do?"

"Um, it's... I don't know what specifically to suggest, but you could come up with things on your own."

Stiles jolts. It's a source of resigned interest in his life, seeing which object within a line-up he will spill, break, or dent when he flails. Sometimes it's himself. In this case his out-of-control body's choices are: the plant itself (he hopes it won't be that); a bag of African violet potting mix (difficult to clean up); and a cup of water for humidity and periodic room-temperature watering (being sure never to wet the leaves, as they are susceptible to mildew). The worst to clean up would be a combination of the water and the potting soil. Stiles has learned to clean up a huge repertoire of awkward combined spills, including those mixed with glass.

He only half-flails, but he backhands the cup and spills water on the windowsill and the carpet. He stumbles for a rag and begins dabbing up the water, shaking all the while. He sighs; it is only water, but he has committed a spill in front of his master, which never ceases to distress Stiles.

Derek makes a noise in his throat and watches him, reaches for Stiles as Stiles passes him with the rag, but doesn't touch him. "No, don't be like that. It's not like that. I only meant... I should plan before I say things. Now, _don't worry_ when I say this: you can do whatever you want to do. I was noticing that you take good care of your plant. Ask your friends on that forum for a good online garden center, or have a driver take you to the stores. Tell me the addresses, and I'll give you a charge account wherever you need one."

Stiles is on his knees with the rag, frozen, staring up at Master Derek.

"Do you understand what I mean?"

Stiles slowly shakes his head.

Derek sighs. "Don't look like that. You can buy whatever you want."

Stiles starts shaking again. Master Derek crouches down to his level. "Listen to me. I'm trying to give you something to do. It's like the job with Uncle Peter, only you make it up as you go along, at home. You need a hobby, and you seem to enjoy your plant."

"I don't know how to make things up."

"Yes, you do. You pick out what you like, and order or buy it, okay? If you can't come up with anything on your own... but I think you can... then have the plant forum people tell you what would do well for you to grow, and all the equipment you need. But if you do order things, have them sent to Peter's warehouse and bring them home from work. I don't want delivery people here all the time."

Stiles nods rapidly. "I understand. I think."

"You have all the space you want. Just play with it."

Derek has created a monster. The apartment is soon overrun with, as Stiles requested on the forum, "Plants that grow well and are easy to take care of and are pretty and also won't die." This includes a few, such as spider plants, that easily reproduce themselves indoors. Stiles puts grow lights and seedling trays in the empty bedroom. He buys a planting table, and Uncle Peter has one of his drivers bring it in a van and help Stiles take it upstairs in the elevator. Stiles protects the carpet underneath the planting table with an area rug acquired for this purpose, also brought up by Uncle Peter's impromptu delivery service.

Master Derek doesn't seem to mind the encroaching house plants. Sometimes he sits on the unused, but still regularly aired-out slave's bed and flips through gardening books and magazines.

A few months after Derek told Stiles to buy whatever plant-related stuff he wants, Stiles is over the moon because he has successfully propagated his Iron Cross Begonia from leaf cuttings. He grew his own actual, rooted baby begonias.

"Master Derek! Look!" Stiles charges into the kitchen, forgets himself and grabs his master's sleeve. He's got Master Derek all the way to the plant room before he looks over at his hand gripping the fabric. His jaw drops and he tries to make his hand let go, which it does after an eternity while Master Derek just glances from the clenched hand to Stiles's face.

"Did you have something to show me?" asks Derek.

Stiles points to the trays under the grow lights. 

Master Derek peers into the trays. "What am I looking at?"

"These. These are baby begonias. They... I grew them."

"Oh?"

"They, uh—I—it's the plant you gave me. I rooted leaf—leaf cuttings. It worked. They're rooted. See?"

"Stiles, you did this, you didn't buy these?"

Stiles nods.

Master Derek looks closely at the tray of baby plants. "So you did this leaf cutting, and did all the steps, I don't even know what all it takes. You had to learn all those steps. You're a real gardener." He turns to Stiles and beams. Stiles has never seen him smile anything like this before.

"Good job," says Derek.

Stiles wants to keep him in the room and smiling. "It's the same plant you gave me, and I'm pretty sure this means the rooted babies are the same plant, just tiny little clones, so I'll have the plant you gave me forever. I think it's kind of an immortal being, so I am naming them all Dracula." Stiles is fond of vampires.

Derek's smile changes to one of amusement. "I'm touched that you want to keep that specific plant forever. And I'm proud of you."

Stiles is stunned. Master Derek is proud of him. He wants to stand here forever so he can't make any mistakes or need to do anything ever again. Of course, standing still isn't Stiles's forte, so a minute later he goes to wash his hands and get supper.

*********


	15. Flick

********

The manager of the office, not the main office where Derek works, but the warehouse office, is a black woman at least a head taller than Stiles; she does everything with efficiency of motion and word, and has a two-toned complexion that makes Stiles's mouth water. That's the office manager. The floor supervisor is a white woman, even taller yet, with yellow hair always pulled straight back into a ponytail. She wears a name tag that reads "Tau". When Stiles first saw her he was taken aback by his first view of a slave wearing bright red lipstick. He was promptly afraid of her.

Early on in Stiles's time at the warehouse, Tau handed him a big peanut candy bar from the vending machine, saying it wasn't the kind she had meant to buy and that she wanted a caramel one instead. Stiles ate the candy bar for his morning break and decided it was just as well not to be _too_ afraid of her.

Stiles eats lunch with Master Derek and Peter at the main office one day. They finish their sandwiches, and Stiles checks his phone. There's a text from Dr. Deaton: "Can you call me at the clinic?"

Stiles knows why, before the conscious thought can even get to his brain, and calls the clinic even though Derek and Peter will overhear.

Dr. Deaton asks him where he is right now, and with whom. Stiles tells him.

"Your father is here. Ask Peter if you can have the afternoon off and get a ride to the clinic. Tell them Deucalion isn't here, it's just your father. He's waiting to see you, if you can come."

Stiles manages to convey the message to Derek using actual English, although it's possible he doesn't say anything comprehensible and Master Derek simply heard it all over the phone. Stiles gives what must be his most pleading look, and Derek says, "Of course you may go. Can't he, Peter?"

"I don't see that it's even a question, he has to go."

"Thank you," Stiles mumbles, but he can't express how much gratitude he really feels. "Thank you," he says again, but it still doesn't come out sounding as it should. He's as confused as he is grateful. He won't believe this until he sees his dad. He wonders if he'll get to hug him. Master Derek already said it was all right with him.

"Call me when you're done," Derek tells him.

When Stiles sees his dad in the breakroom at the clinic, he starts talking, high-pitched and fast. "Dad. It's my dad. You're here—you're really here. I thought, when they said you'd be here, that was the plan, that you'd be here, but then I thought you wouldn't be here yourself, someone would have to come and leave a message, give a message from you, that's all I expected—"

Then Dad has Stiles hugged up tight and it becomes the way his fantasies of the moment have always been.

Dad is a lot less gaunt than when Stiles saw him last. He must be getting regular food. Stiles shouts, "You have a place to live!"

"Yes. For a little while. We need to find someplace else to go soon."

Stiles doesn't like the look in his father's eye when he says this, and he knows Dad doesn't want Stiles to see him like that, because he looks away before he finishes speaking.

Stiles closes his eyes as Dad runs a finger over his scars and asks, "Can you see all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. It didn't hurt my eye."

"I've been so worried." Dad buries his nose in Stiles's hair. "But now that you're with the Hales, you'll be all right."

"I will?"

"Yes, you will. Just do whatever they tell you."

"I am doing whatever they tell me. But it's hard. I had to learn how to have my own money."

Dad squeezes him even tighter. "I know. It's okay. You'll be okay. I'm sure you're doing fine. What else have you learned to do for them?"

"I made a friend, his name is Scott, and I visited him at Master Damon's house. We polished silver together. That's something I had never done before, even at Miss Cora's. Scott and the butler said I did fine. But I'm not good at ping-pong."

"I used to be pretty good at ping-pong, back when I worked on the farm. Haven't played much since then."

After a couple of hours, Dad and Stiles decide together that their masters have waited for them long enough. Dad takes off his overshirt and his undershirt and gives the undershirt to Stiles. Stiles puts it on over his own and feels hugged on the way home.

********

Master Derek tells Stiles, "We're going to my parents' house. Alpha Mom says we have to come, because Uncle Peter wants to introduce your dad to the family."

"My _dad_? Is he going to be there?"

"That's my understanding. I don't know what he's doing there, but I guess we have to go for supper and find out."

Master Derek is afraid to go home. It's a big, exposed place and has only a single floor. Derek has admitted to Stiles that he's afraid to turn his back to a door, and there are just too many doors and windows at Hale House. But he's also told Stiles that he used to love that big house as a kid.

The driver drops them off at the curve in the dark red brick drive, under an overhang. Stiles has been here before, on errands without Derek. He goes ahead into the short, low-ceilinged hall, and from there into the long kitchen. The kitchen has a red brick floor, dark brown cabinets and a big, heavy table. A couple of fully-shifted werewolves lie in half-lit corners. They rest their muzzles on their paws and their eyes glitter as Stiles passes. He can only tell they're looking in his direction by the way their eyebrows twitch.

His dad _is_ there, inside the Hale House kitchen, dressed in slacks and a button-down. Dad doesn't acknowledge Stiles, except to look up with impartial pleasantness at him, and then at Master Derek when he comes in. Stiles miraculously remembers not to react to his dad's presence.

Contessa glides in and embraces Master Derek and says it's so good to have him home. She grins at Stiles and takes his hands.

Uncle Peter puts down his drink. "You two Stilinskis may hug each other."

Dad grins as if Stiles just walked in, and folds him into a hug. Stiles smushes his cheek against his chest and tries to hug back as strongly as Dad hugs him.

There are lots of clean drinking glasses on a sideboard. Contessa picks one up and hands it to Stiles; he can't see the difference she must see, between slave and owner glasses. She points out a bunch of two-liter bottles of various sodas. Stiles fills his glass with lemon-lime.

"I would have brought Shannon up to meet you," Peter tells Derek, "but I knew you wouldn't want an unfamiliar human at your place."

Derek doesn't answer. He hugs himself and looks around the kitchen as if he's lost something.

"Now I know where you get it from," Alpha Hale says to Stiles, and pats him on the head. Stiles isn't sure what it is he's supposed to have gotten, but if he got it from his dad, it must be a good thing.

Uncle Peter glances toward the hallway openings and the doors—there are four ways out of the kitchen—and scents the air. "Isn't Derek Senior going to un-lurk to meet Shannon?"

"He'll be in eventually, I would think," answers Alpha Hale.

"Oh, well. He can meet him anytime."

"So you did buy Shannon from Duke after all?" Alpha Hale dips a carrot stick. The table is set with platters of cream cheese dips and avocado dips, and things to put in the dips. "Everyone help yourselves. Stiles, sit down and eat something."

Peter answers his sister. "Of course not. I would never offer a man money to buy his best friend."

Alpha Hale is now eating a chip with jalapeno yellow cheese dip. "With Duke living in a house on your property I don't think you qualify as neutral."

"Nonsense," says Peter. "It's Shannon's house, he can do as he likes with it."

"But he's your slave. Didn't Deucalion give him to you?"

"No," Peter grins toothily. "I hired Stilinski as a chauffeur. He is a slave, but he's not _my_ slave. The house is part of his salary. I wasn't using it. What he does with it is his business."

Master Derek has been hovering around the table and looking at the food without selecting any. He looks up from under his eyebrows at Peter. "Wait—when you say 'house' you're not using, you mean that twenty-room thing with the stone wall and the two-acre lot?"

"Yes," Peter says complacently.

"Uncle Peter... people probably don't say this to you often enough, so I'll do it now: you're ridiculous."

"You're right," muses Peter, as if Derek has said something else entirely. "I'll probably have to get them some more slaves to run the place. Two men plus the two servants that watch it now will rattle around in there. But Duke has always liked stone walls, judging by his old compound."

Derek finally eats when his mother brings out pulled-pork sandwiches. Dad sits at the table next to Stiles, and Stiles tells him about his many begonias. They have chocolate layer cake for dessert. Stiles notices that Contessa has two slices, and he wonders whether he should, too. She sees him looking at the plate of slices, and gives him a second one without his asking.

Mr. Hale apparently decides not to de-lurk, so Master Derek quietly escapes the kitchen to go visit with his father for a while.

Dad hugs Stiles again when it's time to leave. He puts on a jacket and fingerless leather driving gloves to take Peter home.

On the way home, Master Derek looks silently out of the window for some time. There's a ranch between Hale House and the city. It has a wall covered with flowering vines: a thick, dark tangle at the top spreading and trailing down; then there's a wide gate, past which you can see Brahman cattle on a hill. Their light grey coats glow in the deep twilight. Derek finally speaks. "I can't let you visit your dad at that house Peter gave him. Duke lives there, and you might end up smelling too much like him. People are hunting for Duke. It wouldn't be safe."

"I understand," says Stiles.

"You can still visit your dad at the clinic."

"Thank you." Stiles can't be sure, but it seems like a thing Uncle Peter would be likely to do, to use Dad as a driver when Stiles needs rides to and from the warehouse. They might see each other that way.

Derek is silent again for a time, then says, "I wish Peter hadn't beaten me to the punch. I could have... I could have..."

"My dad won't leave Duke, and on top of that you wouldn't want a strange human at home."

"I take so long to come around to these things. I couldn't get over my nervousness, and then Peter just stepped in and fixed everything." Derek's lip curls, and he grabs up a fistful of his own pant leg, over his knee.

At home, late at night, when Stiles is on the couch yawning over one of his e-books, Derek says, "Your dad is the most intimidating slave I've ever seen."

"He's hardly even a slave. He was a freeman until he was nineteen years old." Too late to stop his mouth now. If he'd planned it, Stiles couldn't have come up with a worse thing to say.

"Let's not talk about your dad anymore for now," Derek says in a tight voice.

Luckily it's time for bed. Master Derek holds Stiles too tightly. Stiles remembers what Contessa said when he first met her, about being there to make Derek feel safer, so he tries not to fidget to show his discomfort. Eventually he falls asleep, his back forced flat against Derek's chest and Derek's chin hard on the back of his skull.

********

Stiles is given a new job at the warehouse. He has to pack orders. To do this, first he has to pick out the shirts and coats from their color coded areas. Easy enough. Then, with an armload of neatly wrapped shirts and jackets, he tries to fill a shipping box with an order. This means layering the clothes according to a special color code. When there are only a couple of colors of shirt in the order, and those colors don't follow each other directly in sequence in the main code, Stiles freezes up. The gap in the color code breaks his brain. It's easy to pick clothes by color, but not to pack them. Stiles accidentally puts the shirts in backwards, last color on the bottom of the box, when it should be last color in the code at the top of the box.

Stiles stares into space so long that someone asks him what the matter is. He mumbles something but can't really answer. There's nothing wrong except the color chart. Another slave tries to show him: "See, you have a dark blue and a green, if you don't have any shirts of the colors in between, you go on to the next color you do have." Stiles gets the concept, but by the time his hands have packed an order, when he gives it a last check, the wrong color is almost always on top.

One day he turns to floor supervisor Tau, and pleads, "Why? Why the color code?"

"I think it's in the Bible or something. Only thing I know, Master Hale would rather you waste the time undoing a wrong color code, than send the things stacked in the box out of order. Either he's obsessive, or it's a thing in the whole industry, or both."

This makes Stiles a little relieved. At least he knows what his priority is. Still, he wishes he could fold and wrap shirts forever, and never think about packing again. While other employees swiftly and confidently pack boxes, he's standing there playing Go Fish with a color code order reminder card.

That, or he spends a long time correcting his packing, is frazzled yet proud when the shirts are finally in the box right, and then forgets the duplicate order slip that goes in on top of the shirts. One afternoon, he's hurrying because it took him so long to pack this box. He sees the duplicate slip on the table, gets upset with himself, slices open the taped box to add the slip—and when he opens the flaps, there's a long gash in the uppermost shirt.

The only way he keeps from having a heart attack or hiding under the packing table is by repeating to himself, _Uncle Peter pays me, I can pay him for the shirt._ He grips the box cutter handle and steadies himself against the table, and whimpers aloud.

Another slave looks over his shoulder and says, "Toss that in Damaged. It's insured."

"I have my own money. I can pay for it. I'll pay for it."

"Nah. Everyone does it once or twice. It'll be okay."

That same afternoon, Alpha Hale comes by for a visit. She walks across the warehouse floor, smiling at Stiles. "How are you settling in here?"

Alpha Hale hugs him, and Stiles murmurs into the breast of her blazer, "Not so good, Mama."

Peter is coming the other way across the floor to meet the alpha. He snickers as he leans in over Stiles and gives his sister a kiss on the cheek. "The stray has picked out a new mom."

Talia throws Uncle Peter against the wall. That's with one hand. Her other arm is still resting across Stiles's shoulders.

She doesn't even throw him into a wall that's very nearby. Stiles hears bones crack when Uncle Peter hits the side of the grey painted concrete block staircase that leads up to the warehouse office.

Stiles has seen werewolves fight to the death before. He doubts this is what will happen now, as Peter pulls himself back together and rises up. Uncle Peter is Alpha Hale's little brother, and with the lip he gives her, if she were likely to murder him, she'd have done it years ago. But it's still kind of scary, and Stiles shrinks in place. "Stand up straight, Stiles," says Alpha Hale. Stiles feels nauseous as he moves to obey. At the same time, Alpha Hale holds up the flat of one hand and Peter comes tearing toward it.

Peter skids and halts with his lip curled, at about the level of Talia's palm. He snarls, eyes red and wet teeth bared. She doesn't move. Peter grumbles, "What. Seriously?" 

"I'm done," says Alpha Hale.

Peter tosses his head indignantly. "Come on, Talia, you can't just start a fight like that and then beg off. You're no fun."

"I don't want to run my stockings. And I wasn't starting a fight. I was making a statement."

Peter growls, high-pitched, and saliva flecks his sister's palm. He curves the fingers of one hand in a slight bring-it-on motion.

Alpha Hale is unmoved. "Don't tease my baby."

"Goddamnit." Uncle Peter turns on his heel.

Talia adds as he's walking away, "Besides, he's not a stray. He has a perfectly good owner."

Peter waves her off without turning around.

When Talia has gone, and Uncle Peter is striding past Stiles's workstation, Stiles says quietly, knowing Peter will hear him, "I don't mind if you call me a stray."

Peter wheels around, comes back, curls one arm around Stiles and hugs him up. "You'll always be my stray puppy. Somebody needs to put you in your place, right? Now I have to get out of these bloody clothes. Then you should come with me to the manicurist."

Stiles feels nice about the hug, but he has the uncomfortable sensation that he has just given a werewolf permission to do what it is the werewolf's right to do anyway. Furthermore, he senses that Peter has not put him in his place at all. He calls Master Derek for permission to go to the manicurist. Uncle Peter comes back dressed in fine clothes that he has not bled in.

The manicurist does a lot of procedures to Stiles's nails, even though he doesn't have any nails to speak of. She pretends to file them, although the rough parts are right at the quick; she doesn't "file" enough to hurt. Her best attempts leave his nails looking blunted and uneven. At least they're buffed to a shine.

Stiles's newly smooth nails make him think of touching delicate places on Master Derek. Admittedly, many things make him think of Master Derek's ass—not least Master Derek's ass itself. But now that he's thought of his manicured nails and Master Derek's ass together, he has to be sure and get a few minutes to himself before bedtime tonight.

The next two days that Stiles goes to work, he wastes a lot of time looking at the clock and comparing the time it takes him to pack an order versus how long it takes the other slaves. Finally, during a break time, he decides to take matters into his own hands. He's going to change his method of doing shirt picking. He's going to pick and pile them in color coded order immediately, directly from the cubbies.

The invoices list the shirts by size, and then some other criteria, apparently, because even if the shirts are all the same size, they are usually not in color coded order on the invoice. Stiles gets a pad of post-it-notes from the office manager, and for every order that he boxes, he rewrites the order, and times himself. He's faster when he picks the shirts out in order of color code, even though he first has to rewrite the shirt selections in order by color. Without his post-its, his hesitations and constant rearranging make him take at least a third again as much time. He runs this past Tau, who praises him and goes about her business.

Stiles feels as if he must have done wrong, as if he must be getting away with something. He was told to do a task a certain way and changed it, and was praised and allowed to continue. He fumbles all day that day, and almost cries at work. He keeps expecting something to happen, imagines some half-shifted werewolf sneaking up from behind and raking him down the back with claws. Tau comes back his way, and Stiles ducks, as if he's guilty. She just smiles at him and moves on past. Stiles drops his box cutter and bends down to pick it up. When he rises he bonks his head on the underside of the packing table. Uncle Peter pauses to look at him, and asks him if he wants to go home early.

But Stiles will not admit defeat now. He is going to fight it out until he calms down. He's been chewing his thumbnail today even though he's been really good about not doing it since Peter took him to the manicurist. Stiles makes wordless noises and hums when he's not talking, and doesn't realize he's doing it until other slaves give him quizzical looks. He trips on the smooth concrete floor—somehow—and scatters cellophane packages of shirts and jackets all over the floor and underfoot of the other workers.

Uncle Peter sees this from all the way up in the office, through the observation window, and comes down the concrete steps and straight to Stiles. "What's wrong, puppy?"

"Nothing, I—I already told my supervisor." Stiles tells Peter the whole plan he's made on his own. Saying it out loud again makes it comes to his conscious mind: now that he's told Peter, he'll be punished, and then he'll feel better.

"Good job problem solving," says Peter, and begins to walk away. Stiles's secure feeling crumbles. He almost whines for Peter to stay, to come back, to settle him down, to punish him. The tension between his shoulders hurts like he's already been hit with claws. He should be picking up shirts, and gets down on hands and knees to reach for them, but he kneels on the floor uselessly.

Peter is back and standing over him. "Would you like me to drop the other shoe?"

Stiles looks about himself blankly, chews his thumbnail, and finally focuses on Peter. "What do you mean?"

"You're expecting to get punished when you take any agency for yourself. Your whole body's wound up and you can't think straight or do your work. You're unhappy."

Stiles nods.

"I might be able to fix that. Want me to try? It won't hurt much, but it might hurt a little. Won't leave any marks, though."

"I don't care if it hurts," says Stiles. "Please do it."

"Okay, then. Stand up."

Stiles stands with his hands linked behind his back.

Peter says, "Stiles, _shape up_." He shows Stiles his finger and thumb, circled. Stiles can't see what he does next, but he hears a _thunk_ sound, and feels stinging and pressure on his neck muscle. Peter must have flicked his forefinger off of his thumb, and thumped Stiles's neck.

Peter waits a minute. "How do you feel now? Better? Worse?"

Stiles takes a long time thinking that over. "I think it might have worked?"

"What are your emotions like?"

Stiles gives a little shake-out. "I feel relaxed."

"That was the goal."

Without asking, though they hug pretty often, so it's probably okay because it's understood to be okay, Stiles hugs Peter. Uncle Peter says, "You're all right, Stiles. You and Derek can have a lot of fun once he gets his head out of his ass."

Stiles stiffens slightly at the criticism of his master. Peter does that thing he does when he's done doing whatever it is he's doing, strides off elsewhere without another word nor look and lets Stiles get back to work.

When Stiles tells Master Derek about his day, and that Uncle Peter flicked him, Derek's eyes flash and his face gets in close to Stiles's face. "He did what?"

"Flicked me."

"He struck you?"

Stiles is exasperated with how hard it is to explain things to Derek. "He... flicked me." Stiles demonstrates on his own arm.

"He struck you!"

"Only a little! With his finger! I wanted him to. It helped."

"What?"

"I needed to be snapped out of it."

"Not by being hit!"

"I wasn't hit, Master, really. His claw wasn't even out. I know from hitting. He flicked me." Stiles repeats, desperately, "I wanted him to."

Master Derek backs off a half-step. "You want everyone to do everything they do."

"Is that bad?"

"It just proves you don't know what you want."

Stiles mumbles, defiantly, "I wanted him to. I liked it."

There's something dangerous in Derek's tone when he says, "You like everything. Peter can't just take advantage of you like that and throw his weight around."

"He asked me. I didn't feel taken advantage of."

"You said yes, he knew you'd say yes."

"You didn't want me to say yes?" Stiles doesn't always know exactly where the line is between boss and master, especially with Uncle Peter.

"It's all you know how to say."

Later, Stiles hears Master Derek yelling into the phone. "Next time call me first and get my permission!" He hangs up and says to Stiles, "I don't want to eat together tonight. Just bring me something on the couch and you can eat at the table." Stiles is a little relieved to hear this, even though he's sullen and hurt. He doesn't think it would go well to be staring at each other over supper.

After supper, Derek gives Stiles an aggressive marking, looking mad the whole time, washes him and says, "Do you want to sleep with me tonight?"

Stiles was worried Derek wouldn't want him to, but now the question seems silly, since they sleep together every night. Plus, what is he supposed to say? Master Derek thinks all he knows how to say is yes. So he just goes and gets into Derek's bed.

********


	16. Surrounded by Wolves

********

"Stiles, can you work through lunch hour with just a snack at your table? I'll let you go home an hour early."

"I can do whatever you ask me to, Uncle Peter." Privately, Stiles plans to place his snack on the floor instead of on the table, so the inevitable spills don't cause an expensive disaster.

"Now," says Peter, who is staying over lunch hour as well, "remember, these are individuals' orders. They aren't going to the boutiques. So don't tape any of them until I've put in the personal notes."

The other employees leave for lunch and Stiles "throws together an order", as Uncle Peter puts it. Stiles understood Uncle Peter's instructions, but he makes the mistake of placing the invoice duplicate in the bottom of the box instead of on top of the clothes. He has to unpack everything, take the slip out, put it on top, and when he's got everything together successfully, he forgets that this is a special instance and begins to tape. Suddenly Peter is behind him snapping his fingers and saying sharply, "Stiles!"

Stiles jolts—it's not a full flail, but his attention is certainly gotten. Peter points at the half-taped box. "You just need to..." Stiles smacks himself on the forehead, because he knew this—and that's when Derek roars behind his head.

Stiles jumps. Peter doesn't even growl. Derek is the one making all the noise. Stiles sneaks a look over his shoulder, trying not to let loose any sound of fear. Peter is flashing his eyes at Master Derek. Stiles takes one shy step sideways, to Uncle Peter's side of the invisible line between the two werewolves.

Derek grows subdued, and Stiles figures Peter has stared him down. Peter stands up straight and says to Derek, "Nephew, you're a moron. Frightening your own boy." Uncle Peter motions for Stiles, who moves closer to him. He takes Stiles's arm and looks him in the eye. "Okay?"

Stiles nods quickly and swallows. Peter firmly tousles Stiles's hair, shoots Master Derek one more narrow-eyed stare, and departs to some other area of the warehouse.

Derek dashes in and rubs his palms all over Stiles's hair, his lip stuck in a snarl. When he's done messing with Stiles's hair he says, "Goodbye, I'll see you after work," and stalks off.

Stiles is so rattled he can't get started working again for five minutes. 

********

Tucked in bed in Derek's arms that night, having been thoroughly urine-marked and then carefully cleaned and dried, Stiles should be as luxuriously comfortable as usual, but he is alert and tense.

"I'm sorry," Derek says, "but you're not Peter's slave, and he can't do that to you. He can't raise his voice at you."

Stiles shrugs, a rude gesture when being spoken to by a werewolf. "He's my boss."

"You sided with him," Derek accuses.

Stiles pouts his lip. "You were louder."

Derek tightens his hug. Stiles can't stay tense when he's squeezed, and begins to doze off.

Master Derek murmurs, "Yes, go to sleep. It won't happen again."

"It won't happen again" always refers to things slaves have done wrong. _It had better not happen again._ Stiles answers automatically, "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for." Master Derek takes one arm from around Stiles, and pets his hair, forehead, and all around the sides and tops of his ears. It feels really good, and Stiles stays awake several minutes to enjoy it and then falls asleep.

********

Master Derek informs Stiles that they'll be going up to the lake again in a few days. Stiles begins packing Master Derek's things and his own. He packs their individual bags with the stuff that they won't need until they get there, and makes a careful list of what they will need to pack at the last minute.

As soon as they arrive and walk down the path to the lake, Master Derek picks Stiles right up off his feet and says, "Want to get in the lake?"

Stiles can't answer at first; he just loves that Master Derek picked him up. They approach the area where the grass changes to sand, and then—water, until it reaches the bluffs far beyond. "No, no. It's too much water, let me down."

Derek sets him down. Stiles doesn't plan to, but the water is too close and Derek had designs a moment ago that involved putting him in it, so Stiles runs up the slope to Alpha Hale and latches onto her waist. "Alpha Hale, don't let him put me in! I don't want to go in."

"Of course not, sweetheart." Mama pets Stiles's head, and calls out, "Derek Hale, if you scare this boy, I'm taking him away from you for the whole weekend."

" _No_." Stiles repents. He'd rather risk the water than be separated from Master Derek. He murmurs, "I'm sorry, Mama," and pulls away and walks contritely back to Derek. "Sorry, Master. You can put me in the lake if you want."

Master Derek frowns. "Saying no when you don't want something is not a behavior I'm _putting up with_. It's the right thing to do. It's what I want you to do."

"You can put me in a little bit, though," says Stiles.

"You don't really want to, you're just saying that."

Stiles takes Master Derek's hand. "Try."

Derek sighs and takes him down to the water. Stiles takes off his shoes and Derek leads him by the hand all the way to where Stiles's toes enter the lake. The lake water is warmer than the cold showers and baths he sometimes had to take in previous places. It rises past his heels, almost up to his ankles when a wave rolls in. "Nope, too much water." He flails when he tries to back up, so Derek helps him out.

Talia sniffs the air and questions him sharply when they come back from the lake edge. "Are you scared, Stiles?"

"Not anymore."

Talia looks off to one side of Stiles, rolls her eyes, and backs up a step. Stiles didn't hear fully-shifted wolf Peter coming up dripping from the lake. Peter shakes, and water gets all over Stiles, and some on Derek.

Peter shifts back, shakes out his hair and heads for the sunny spot the wolves always lie in to dry off. "You want him covered in lake water, nephew, there's more than one way to skin a cat."

" _Dick_ ," says Derek under his breath. Uncle Peter hears him, but just waves him off. Derek cups Stiles's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I could have shielded you, but I thought he was going for Mom."

"So did she," Stiles says absently, staring up at those rainbow rock walls covered in pines. He points to the top of the bluffs. "I want to go up there."

"Let's get some drinking water and snacks, and we can go."

Stiles didn't know it would take so long they'd need water and snacks. It's a full-on adventure.

It turns out there are paths marked out for this purpose. When Derek and Stiles have climbed about halfway up one of the trails, they stop and look far down at the lake through pine branches. Stiles can see big, dark birds way across the lake, in the pines opposite; they're so big he can make out their silhouettes easily. Eagles. Stiles will look them up when he gets home.

He's so overcome with how huge this place is that he doesn't know what to do, so he asks Derek, "Do you like it?"

"Sure." Master Derek claps his hand over Stiles's shoulder and gives him a gentle shake. "I like the company."

Stiles feels strange all the way from his chest to his toes. "You mean me?"

"Yes, I mean you. It's more fun with you here."

The strange feeling becomes a pleasant, all-over buzz. It's a good thing they have a long walk the rest of the way up and back down the trail, or Stiles wouldn't know what to do with his energy.

At sunset, down in the picnic area, Stiles sees Alpha Hale's full wolf form for the first time. She's almost black, with gold-brown glints in her fur, and half again as tall as Uncle Peter's wolf form at the shoulder. Stiles imagines the undercoat around Alpha Hale's generously furred throat is very soft, and he wants to dig his hands in there and find out. He kneels and whispers in her ear, "Mama, can I pet your throat?" and she lets him.

Peter is lounging in a chair and says, "I think your stray puppy is slightly off-kilter, Derek."

Alpha Hale makes a low, long growl that Stiles can feel vibrate under his fingertips. Her mouth doesn't move; she only makes the noise, like a cat purring, but threatening instead of happy. She's looking at Peter, and she doesn't push Stiles away, so Stiles doesn't worry about it.

"Why, what is there to criticize about him now," Derek asks Peter, flatly.

"Nothing. Fourteen slaves came with us on this trip. I think they all love Talia, most of them owe her their lives, but I don't believe any of them would stick their noses in her ear. I wouldn't."

Hands in Talia's woolly undercoat, Stiles says, "I owe Master Derek my life."

"And Master Peter," says Peter, "who repeatedly took Master Derek to slave sales and tried to coax him out of the car with gummy bears, to no avail. That is, until finally it was to an avail, once, Stiles. You may thank me anytime."

"I'll thank you for something right now." Stiles gently pushes at Talia until he can stand up. He doesn't want to leave off petting her, so he digs his hands into her ruff until he finds the loose skin under all the fur, wads some up in a fist, and leads her with him over to Uncle Peter's chair. Peter is giving him a strange look. Stiles steers Alpha Hale up alongside Peter, stands behind his chair, leans over and hugs him around the neck. "Thank you for the shirts."

"What shirts? Did you pick some out for yourself finally?"

"Not yet... I mean the ones you gave me the first day in your office. To hold."

Peter knits his brows. "I gave you shirts to hold?"

Stiles sighs. He hates having to explain himself, in case he's wrong in whatever he's saying. "I was going to fall apart. And you gave me something to hold."

Peter still looks puzzled, but Derek says, "I remember that. You may not remember, but you did it on purpose, Peter. I'm not sure how much of the scaring him in the first place was on purpose. It can be hard to tell, with you." He adds, generously, after a moment, "it was probably just your usual thoughtlessness."

"I wouldn't scare a stray puppy." Peter reaches up and pats Stiles's cheek, but Alpha Hale takes Peter's other arm in her mouth and squeezes. "Ow," says Peter. "I mean it, I wouldn't ever scare the boy on purpose."

"I don't care if you did or not," says Stiles.

"I didn't scare you on purpose, sweetpea," says Peter. He eyes Talia. "I may call him by non-stray-related endearments in your presence, may I not?"

Derek glowers. "Do you call him 'stray' on a regular basis when we're not around?"

"He asked me to," says Peter.

Stiles hunches his shoulders, his arms still looped around Peter's neck.

"All right," says Master Derek. Stiles sucks in his breath—this may be the closest he'll ever get to outright permission to have Peter call him whatever he wants. It may actually _be_ outright permission; Stiles isn't sure. Then again, it might not extend past the weekend. Peter tilts his head back and winks at Stiles, which assures Stiles that this will not be a problem.

Stiles kneels on the ground and plays with the tops of Talia's huge paws. She curves her neck and perks her ears at his fingers. Stiles flops over sideways in the grass, takes one of Mama's paws, feeling the tough pad, and places it over his chest. She lightly steps on him, and he smiles, feeling dreamy. The effect of being stepped on is similar to the effect of being firmly held in bed by Master Derek.

********

"I want to taste Contessa's cooking again, outdoor grill cooking. May I call and ask her to come over and cook out in the yard?"

Master Derek says, "You can do whatever you want."

Stiles is exasperated. "It doesn't work that way, Master. You're the owner, you give me permission. Or you deny me permission. Say yes or no."

"You can do whatever you want," Derek repeats, and Stiles comes to stand before him, frowning. 

"I cannot do whatever I want! You said so yourself! I can't..." He tries hard to think of something he actually wants to do, that Master Derek has made it clear he is never to do. "I want to go see my dad!"

"At the—"

"No, not at the clinic, at his house! Right now. So I think I'll go right now."

"No, you won't," growls Master Derek.

"See?"

"Not because you _can't_. You _won't_ , because I asked you not to. I know you won't."

"You're _asking_ me not to. But I'm going, right now, because you said it's my decision to make. You won't order me not to do it. I can do whatever I want. Only I really can't—you're the one saying I can. So to prove it, I am going over to my dad's house right this minute. I want to see my father." Stiles heads for the door. Master Derek sits in his chair with folded arms.

Stiles goes out the door and Master Derek is standing and glowering, arms still folded, in the hallway in front of him. Stiles doesn't startle—he doesn't know how Derek got there so fast, but he's not surprised to see him.

"Excuse me," says Stiles, and makes to go around him. Master Derek steps aside and then turns to watch him leave. Stiles keeps going. It occurs to him to call one of Uncle Peter's drivers. He does so, and waits in the lobby, feeling queasy and miserable.

The driver arrives, and Stiles sits in the car and his misery lifts a little. He is going to see his dad, after all. Even though after this, Master Derek is going to kill him. And Master Derek is unhappy. And a long time ago Derek made the order for Stiles not to go to his dad's for a good reason. Stiles personally isn't sure he'd be unsafe, but Derek is very worried. Then again, Master Derek is worried about everything—and he has good reason to be, based on his past. And then there is what happened to Master Deucalion. He has serious enemies. Something _could_ happen to Stiles. He wonders what Derek will do now that he's disobeyed. He wonders what his punishment will be.

Dad's house is huge, the gravel walk leading to the front door is long; it's like houses Stiles used to visit with Cora, only there's more brick and bigger walls. The walls really are like Duke's old house. Stiles introduces himself to a slave at what seems to be the slaves' entrance, and says he's there to see Shannon Stilinski.

Dad looks worried when he sees him. "I thought you weren't supposed to come here. Is everything okay?"

"No, everything is not okay. Master Derek said I can do whatever I want."

"Why would he say a thing like that?"

"I don't know! So now I'm here. Do you want to see me?"

"Always."

"Well, I want to see you, too. So, I'm here. I don't know, I don't know what he's going to do, and I don't care. He has no business telling me I can do whatever I want, and I'm sick of it!"

Dad pats Stiles on the shoulder. He shows him up a short flight of steps from the slaves' hall, to an open space with a stone tile floor and archways leading off to other open spaces. Master Duke is there, and he stands up to greet them.

Stiles hasn't seen Master Duke since leaving home to go to kitchen training. Duke's been sick from what those people did to him when they attacked his house. He's still recovering, and he's blind, but otherwise he's exactly the same. "You're so grown up," he says when Stiles latches on to him as if Master Duke were a Hale. "No thanks to me."

"I'm glad you got him out of there when you did," says Dad.

Stiles never even thought of that.

"Sit down here." Dad leads the way to a scattered arrangement of chairs and sofas by a wide set of windows. "Or kneel, whichever you're used to nowadays."

Stiles doesn't get the chance to kneel. He's waiting for Master Duke to sit down first, so he can kneel beside his couch or chair, when claws come scrabbling fast across the floor behind him. Stiles doesn't have time to turn around before something bumps him in the back of his knee. It feels like a werewolf's muzzle. He bends his knee to get away from the touch, and in that instant, a second werewolf he didn't hear coming rears up and bumps him on the elbow.

He's surrounded by fully-shifted wolves. He didn't know there were any wolves here besides Deucalion. Stiles wants to back up to his father, so they can both face outward and have each other's backs, but the two wolves are between them. Stiles drops to the floor on his knees and covers his head. One of the werewolves snuffles at him, then pushes him with its nose. Stiles topples onto his side, but keeps his hands tight over his head and tucks his knees up to his chest. The werewolf keeps on nosing Stiles's elbow up, to get to his face. Stiles fights it, tries to keep his elbows together and his face covered. "No, no!"

The werewolf pushes Stiles's elbow up once more. It's too close for Stiles to see its face, but it leaves a space through which Stiles can see the forepaws of the second werewolf. He knows those paws and claws—it's Erica in full wolf form. The first wolf is backing off now, and it's Aiden. He rolls over onto his back with an apologetic expression.

Dad gets on the floor with Stiles. He sits in front of him, cross-legged. When Stiles risks peeking out again, Dad untangles Stiles's defensive curl, and draws him slowly, one limb at a time, up to himself, until Stiles's head is near his chest. Stiles feels as if he's just sprinted a long way.

Erica slinks out of the room. Deucalion nudges the abject Aiden with his toe, and ruffles Stiles's hair gently. Stiles flinches under his old master's hand; he has never done such a thing to Deucalion before.

Dad says, low but firm, "Calm down, son. Everything will be fine."

Erica returns, in human shape, draped in a loose, T-shirt-knit dress. "Oh, sweetie. Was that greeting too rough?"

"No! I'm so, so sorry for greeting you and Aiden this way."

She hugs Stiles and her hair falls across his neck. Stiles hugs back, and it takes a strong effort not to pet her hair. This is not how he pictured his ideal reunion with Aiden and Erica. They sit on either side of Stiles on the couch, while he kneels on the floor. "You should visit my place, if you can," says Erica. "Bubbles and I miss you."

"I really want to come and visit, if Master Derek will let me."

Aiden pushes at Stiles's shoulder. "Deucalion and Shannon invited me to stay here. Come and see my rooms. Oh—I put your letters in my dresser. Want them back now?"

"I would love that. Sorry for being so much trouble. Thank you." Stiles sounds polite, but his right hand clenches his dad's knee.

Dad stays in his cross-legged slouch on the floor near Stiles, and covers Stiles's tight hand loosely with his own. "Been awhile since you lived in a house with big, rude wolves running around, right, son?"

This reminds Stiles of what he's doing here in the first place. "I _do_ care what Master Derek does to me, if he says I can never see you again at all." Stiles has not thought of this possibility until this moment. Would Derek go that far? He has that right, and Stiles would deserve it. Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket and dials Master Derek. Derek doesn't answer, which makes Stiles's heel jiggle. He leaves a voicemail. "I'm here. I'm at Dad and Duke's." He stares at the phone for some time, but Master Derek doesn't call back immediately.

Aiden tries to unhitch Stiles from Dad, but Stiles hesitates until Dad gives him a gentle pat with a push at the end of it. Then Aiden shows Stiles his bedroom. Like all of the rooms in this house, it's undecorated, but it has a solid wooden frame bed and a dresser. The thick walls make it cool and quiet. Aiden takes Stiles's old letters out of a drawer and gives them to him. Aiden says it's okay, so Stiles kneels right there and re-reads them.

Aiden shows him his sitting room, which has one upholstered chair the same dark sand color as the wall, and its own fireplace; and his bathroom, bigger than Master Derek's. "They said they'll come up with something for me to do, so I can earn my board, and I hope they mean it," says Aiden. "They gave me all this for free, as soon as your dad got the job with Peter. They haven't talked since then about how I'm supposed to pay for it. I have a little money, but they won't take it."

"Don't worry. My dad will find something for you to do."

Erica calls them back to the big open room, for iced coffee. Erica put sugar and cream in the coffee, plus sweetened whipped cream on top. With the cool drink, his letters in his pocket, and some time to breathe, kneeling at Deucalion's feet, Stiles feels bolder. He asks Deucalion, "Can't Dr. Deaton fix your eyes?"

"He thinks not," says Deucalion. "It seems the magic the humans used was made to seal the wolfsbane into my eyes, and I went too long without treatment."

"Did you kill any humans when they took over your house?"

"Yes, I did. It did not change the outcome." Deucalion licks his lips. "I hadn't tasted human blood in a long time, so that's something."

Dad tells Stiles, "The man he killed kicked him to make sure he was dead. So Master Duke pulled him down."

"Duh," says Stiles.

Duke absently rubs his palm firmly in circles on the top of Stiles's head. It's owner behavior, and Stiles doesn't bother to correct him. Let Master Derek deal with Stiles smelling like his old master.

Dad speaks after some time. "They were watching that hole they'd smashed into the wall, and I figured they had ash lines everywhere else. Your little planting steps helped us out, son. Nobody knew there was a way for a human to get over the wall. I dug out the footholds and climbed them, went down the tree, and broke the ash line at that point. It was only string. Then I had to climb back and help Master Duke."

"I was useless. Could not use my legs. I could only help with my hands in those alcoves. Your father pulled me across the courtyard and pushed me up the wall."

"And then I threw him over the wall onto the ground, and counted on him to heal later."

"An obviously flawless plan," says Deucalion.

Master Derek calls Stiles back. "I was wrong. I'm sorry. I'll punish you for running off to your dad's, if you want."

"I wasn't running!" Stiles begins to hyperventilate.

"No, I meant—Stiles it's okay. I meant _visiting_ your father against my wishes. Because I want you to visit your dad, I really do. But I know it's not safe. I'm sorry, you may have Contessa over to cook out. But we don't have a grill."

"I know that. She can bring one from Hale House. But—but when will my punishment be?"

"I don't know, I'll figure out something. It won't interfere with the cooking out. I'm sorry, we'll work this out later."

When Stiles gets home, Master Derek takes a whiff of his hair and sends him right to the shower for marking.

Afterward, Derek lets Stiles make hot cocoa, and makes him sit at the table with him. Derek explains, "I thought it was a perfectly reasonable request, to have Contessa over. But it made me mad, because I didn't want to go outside. I didn't even want you to bring me cooked-out food upstairs. I knew you'd be downstairs in the yard, talking to people from the building who go outside, not like me, and spending time with Contessa. Contessa is basically my favorite servant from Mom's house, from when I was growing up. I would like to see her more often, but I don't want to go outside and be looked at and talked to by people. I just didn't want to do it, and so I wanted to tell you _no_ , you couldn't do it."

"You should have told me no, then."

"Yes, I should have told you no, if I didn't want you to do it. But I thought your request was reasonable. And that telling you no was unreasonable. And I did _not_ want to talk about it and then have you offer me all kinds of solutions, such as that Contessa should just come up and visit _me_. I didn't want you to promise not to talk to her yourself, or not to say hello to any people outside, and to keep your cooking out to only one hour. All the ridiculous things you suggest when you're trying to placate me. I just didn't want to talk about it. So I said that you can do whatever you want, and put it in your hands. I was wrong. You can have her over."

"You think I'm ridiculous?"

"Did I say that?"

"You said I say ridiculous things to try to placate you. Am I ridiculous?"

"Sometimes, yes."

Stiles feels very small.

Derek asks, "I'm sorry, is that so bad?"

"Yes. I thought I was making good suggestions, to help you."

"But your suggestions place insane restrictions on you."

"You think I'm ridiculous. I'm trying to be a good slave, Master. I can't be. I can never be good at it. No matter what you do to me, I'm never going to get any better."

Master Derek's brow furrows. "I'm not going to do anything to hurt you. Your punishment for run—I mean, for visiting your father expressly against my permission will be fewer tablet game hours or something."

"It won't help." Stiles almost sobs. He sinks down off of his chair, to his knees. "Nothing helps."

"I think you're perfect the way you are."

"No, you said you think I'm ridiculous."

"No, I—back up. Yes, but I meant, only the times when you suggest ridiculous workarounds to make me happy."

"What's wrong with that? Lots of werewolves like really specific things. You like really specific things."

"But it's not some puzzle you have to figure out. It's my job to tell you what I want."

"Well, why don't you do it then? I always have to guess what you want. And I got it really wrong when I called your bluff."

"All right, yes, I should be more clear. But I don't _like_ how many specific requests and restrictions I have. It's embarrassing."

"Don't be embarrassed. You're the werewolf master. You can have anything you want."

Master Derek stands up abruptly. "No, I can't."

"Yes, you can. Tell me what you want and I'll get it for you."

Master Derek stares at him. His jaw and neck look tense. "If I tell you what I want, you'll say I can have it."

"I know! Yes. So just tell me what you want."

"No." Derek scowls and stalks off to the kitchen.

Stiles goes and kneels on the master bedroom floor and slowly reads again the letters that Aiden returned to him. He draws a long breath, stands up and tucks the letters into his shirt drawer. It feels as if Dad is as far away as he used to be.

********


	17. Nowhere Anymore

********

Stiles doesn't get out of bed the next morning when it's time to get up. He stares at the wall and remembers Deucalion's house from back when he was a kid, the tasks he had there, and seeing his dad every morning and night. He even remembers what the water from the fountain in the yard tasted like. He feels dull, like his body is a lump of stone. He can't move. Stiles didn't know homesickness could make a person so actually sick.

Master Derek tries to find out what's wrong. Stiles avoids telling him, remembering again how the word _homesick_ offended Theo Raeken. Derek presses, and Stiles finally settles for sharing the word _heartbroken_ , to let Master Derek know that he's not physically ill. But then Derek asks him outright if he's homesick, and Stiles has to tell him.

Master Derek calls in to work, so he can spend the day with Stiles. "Uncle Peter's worried about you. He'll call later to see how you're doing. I could read to you, since you're motionless. Would you like that?"

"Yes."

"What would you like me to read?"

"Can you download _Goodnight, Moon_?"

"I don't have to download it. I own that book. It's in with my stuff from home." Master Derek opens a wooden trunk and brings out a stack of books, and slides each one aside until he gets the title he's looking for.

When the story is over, Stiles tells him, "You have a good voice for reading _Goodnight, Moon_."

"Thank you," Derek says gruffly, and pats Stiles on the shoulder.

He brings Stiles a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and some milk in a slave glass. Stiles sits up in bed, which causes him aching pain, as if he's physically injured. He eats almost all of his sandwich. "I'm sorry, I can't get another bite down."

"You're sick. It's all right." Master Derek takes the plate and glass away. He comes back and sits on the edge of the bed again, and Stiles tells him all about Romeo:

One time when Mohan jumped over a wall for Stiles, to help him do an errand, back through the gap came a short, sharp, loud scream. A minute after that: "Send Stiles over. I spooked a little girl slave. Maybe a human can calm her down."

Tavish was in human form, and he let Stiles step into his palms, and hoisted him up. Crouched in the gap, Stiles could hear that someone was crying. Romeo lay on her side, and Mohan looked up helplessly at Stiles. Mohan had turned mostly human, with only a little scruff around his jaw. "I tried turning human to help her, but I don't know how to manage her. She isn't listening to me. Can you talk to her?" He held his arms out. Stiles quickly got past the trembling that always came before letting himself drop, and pushed off from the wall.

Stiles asked Romeo if she was hurt. She covered her face with her arms and her head with her hands, but he could see that she was shaking her head. He tried to gently pull one of her arms, to help her up. She made an angry noise and resisted.

Stiles told her, "It's only Mohan." Romeo finally peeked out from under her arms at the werewolf.

Mohan shuffled his feet. "Guess I should make some noise when I drop down."

Stiles tried to help Romeo up, but she covered her head again and stayed firmly on the floor. "I'll leave," offered Mohan, and seemed grateful to disappear. Still, it took some time for Romeo to recover. She was ashamed, but she couldn't help it. Stiles coaxed her along the corridors to the kitchen by reminding her that the cook had gotten a delivery of real cream, and was making butter, and there would be real buttermilk.

Romeo told Stiles later that she had come around a corner in one of the many confusing corridors in Deucalion's house, and a large, black shape had dropped down silently in front of her.

Stiles always thought of the many corridors in Duke's house as cool and fun, and if he did get startled when a silent, black, unexpected shape appeared, the silent black shape grabbed him up and noogied him and teased him about it. Stiles always realized quickly, after his first startle, which wolf it was.

"It's different for you," said Romeo. "You're not afraid of werewolves."

Stiles tells Master Derek, "I'm just like her. I was _exactly_ like her, when Aiden and Erica came up to me at Dad's house. Master Deucalion sold Romeo. My dad said that Master Duke said it was because Romeo was too nervous to stay at his house. If Deucalion gets his sight back—he thinks he won't, but if he does—and then kills those people that took over his house, and gets his house back... if he does all those things, I won't even be able to be his slave anymore. I won't be good enough. I won't be brave enough."

"You want to be a Duke slave.”

"Well. Only if I could be yours, too."

********

It's five thirty in the morning, Saturday, farmers' market day. Stiles has been up since four thirty. He intends to eat breakfast at the farmers' market. Turnovers, cakes, swirled breads and coffee are always for sale. Master Derek's coffee machine was set last night, and breakfast is prepared for him. Stiles is getting ready in front of the full-length mirror inside the folding door of the closet.

Master Derek stirs. "What am I forgetting?"

"Nothing."

Master Derek speaks without raising his head. "Are you getting ready to go somewhere?"

"Yes, Master, I'm leaving pretty soon. Anything you want before I head out?"

Master Derek props himself up on his elbows and tucks his pillow under his chest. "Where are you going?"

"Farmers' market."

"Dressed up like that?"

Stiles is wearing a brown suit, brown tie, and an extremely nice, cream-colored shirt. His hair is neatly trimmed, shoes shined, suit brushed soft and spotless. His watch glints under a cuff. He didn't notice until his manicurist pointed it out to him that he has stopped chewing his nails altogether. Stiles discards the tie and undoes his top shirt button. "I like the looks I get." He also likes to express this type of sentiment to Master Derek, because then this happens:

Derek tumbles out of bed. He tries to get his sideburns on Stiles's temples, pressing his face against him like a cat. He noses so hard into Stiles's neck that his mouth touches Stiles's skin. Stiles gets to be touched by Master Derek, _and_ be safer when he goes out. Derek grabs Stiles's arms and rubs his palms hard on his wrist. He undoes the watch to do so, then meekly puts it back on. But he hovers, breathing on Stiles's cheek. "You like the _looks_ you get?"

Stiles gives Master Derek an amused look over his shoulder. "Did I say that out loud?"

Derek pulls back, standing up straight, but he takes tight hold of Stiles's elbow. "I have to pee anyway. Get in the shower."

All the fun goes out of Stiles. He takes two steps back from Master Derek, stretching his arm because Derek is still gripping his elbow, then puts one foot forward again, stamping it. "Not until I'm done at the farmers' market."

Derek growls. "You're not going out there, dressed to attract attention, if you're not marked up good!"

Stiles leans back. "I am marked up good. I am. From last night. I look perfect. I smell okay. I'll get in the shower with you when I'm done shopping."

Derek blinks. He stares at Stiles for a long moment, huffing, then takes his hand off Stiles's arm and wipes his own face. He averts his gaze, his eyelashes drooping.

"The farmers’—farmers’ market starts... starts early." Stiles shakes the tension out of the arm that Master Derek released, then flaps his hand in front of his own chest. "It goes all morning but if you don't get there really early all the good stuff is gone. There's not time for marking—and showering—and getting dressed all over again." Both of his hands shake. Derek looks up again and takes them, but they don't still. Shivers move from Stiles's wrists, up his arms. He leans into Derek's space. "I won't do it right now!"

"Okay. Suit yourself." Master Derek presses Stiles's palms with his thumbs, and pets his knuckles.

"But I will after. I will after. I want to this afternoon. I really really want to."

Master Derek gives him a pained look. Stiles has never been sure what to make of that look. It comes up at different sorts of times, no one type of behavior on Stiles's part sets it off. Derek should look outraged, or offended, not meek and pained, for being refused. Maybe Stiles has hurt his feelings by defying him.

"Are you sure you won't right now?" Master Derek asks, still with that seemingly sad look.

Stiles sinks into himself. "Yes, I'm sure I won't, but later I will."

Master Derek grabs him. He's never hugged Stiles outside of bed.

"Come with me shopping," Stiles says, muffled by Derek's chest and upper arms.

"No."

"Please, Master. Come along with me to the farmers' market and keep an eye on me."

Master Derek allows him abruptly out of the hug and says, "Let me really wake up."

Stiles sits on the edge of the bed, bouncing, and waits.

Derek goes to the bathroom, and throws on some jeans, and a T-shirt printed with the logo of one of those weird independent human bands he likes. He sits next to Stiles on the bed and says, "I don't know why I'm doing this to myself. I should do what my dad does."

"What is that?"

"Stay in wolf shape almost all the time."

"Oh. That would make it difficult to work at the office."

"Yeah." Master Derek drops onto his back and stares at the ceiling. "You've stumped me."

"I wasn't trying to."

"I don't know what to do. I can't go the farmers' market with you."

"I was going alone. I've gone alone lots of times. The driver always knows how long it should take me to finish. You don't have to come."

"But I can't have you out _there_ with me in _here_ with you not marked up good!"

Stiles sighs; it's a waiting sigh, while his master works out his problem. He bounces on the bed, with the heels of his hands on the comforter.

"Stiles... you've stumped me. I don't know what to do."

"Yes, Master. You said." Stiles leans toward him.

Master Derek exhales softly. He gets up on one elbow and stares at the closet door. "I can't let you go."

"I'll stay home, then."

"No!" Master Derek makes a fist and, in absence of something hard to pound it against, pounds it in thin air.

Stiles cringes. "I'll go, then."

Master Derek speaks into his hands. "No, no, no. Nothing's right. No. No answer is right except that I need to fucking man up." After a time he lifts his head and says in a wobbly voice: "I'll go with you."

"Okay!" Stiles jumps up. "Need anything before we go?"

"No, no..." Derek isn't answering the question. He reaches for Stiles's hand and stops him from running out of the room. "No..."

"Okay, so—" Stiles waves his arms to indicate he's ready. His phone rings and he has trouble getting it out of his pocket. "Sorry, geez, let me see who this is, um. It's Mama. Hang on, I'm sorry, I'll see what she wants, okay? Good morning, Alpha."

"Good morning, Stiles. Where are you?"

"I'm at home."

"You're marketing today, right?"

"I was going to head out pretty soon," Stiles answers uncertainly, looking at Master Derek.

"Good. I'm having a company-coming-over emergency. Contessa will text you a list. Now, don't worry if you can't get what's on the list. The market is a mixed bag. Only buy what looks good. And don't go anywhere out of your way afterward, trying to find things."

"Yes, Alpha. I will do all of that, if I get to go. I'm not sure Master Derek will let me. He thinks I'm being disloyal."

"What's the matter?"

Stiles tells her how he refused to be marked.

"Stiles! I knew you'd be good for him. Let me talk to Derek."

Stiles hands over the phone, mystified by Alpha Hale's enthusiasm.

Master Derek says gruffly, "Thank you," to his mother, ends the call and hands the phone back to Stiles.

"What does she say? Can I go?"

"She congratulated us."

"What? Why?"

"Because a person who can say no can also say yes."

Stiles gives his head a brief scratch and furrows his brow at his master. "You don't think I'm being disloyal?"

Master Derek breaks out with a yell: "No, you are not being disloyal!"

Stiles doesn't jump, but his shoulders jitter upward. Derek sighs and flops backwards onto the bed again. "She also said that she understands why I don't want to let you go out, but it'd be a favor to her if I would let you go." He sits up and looks at Stiles. "But I still don't know if you're going. I haven't decided. I want you here, if you won't let me mark you. But if you have to do an errand for Alpha Hale, then I guess you'd better go."

"You can tell her I can't go. Or, I'll call her back and tell her myself."

"I can't disappoint her," says Master Derek, his face going hard. "You can't disappoint Mom."

"I can, actually." Stiles sits bouncily on the bed again.

Derek looks at him with a terribly sad and confused face. Stiles is so puzzled at this that his lip quirks. "What's the matter?"

"We can't let her be disappointed."

"Sure, we can."

Master Derek gives Stiles an even more baffled look.

"I'm not Mama's slave, I'm yours. She's asking for a favor. I said yes, but I can cancel. What do you need me to do instead?"

"Stay with me so you don't go out there alone."

"Okay. I'll call Mama and cancel."

"Tell her you're sick."

"But I'm not."

Master Derek sighs raggedly.

"Master, what's wrong?"

Derek buries his face in his hands. "I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"I can't go out there. Out there with all those people. Crowds of humans. And werewolves, but... mostly humans. I can't do it."

"You're not afraid of all humans. You're not afraid of me."

"But you wouldn't hurt me."

"Do you think someone out there would hurt you? I'll make sure they don't! I'll call Alpha Hale! Or I'll—if she doesn't come fast enough I don't know what I'll do, but I'll do something. I'll do what I can."

"It's not that I think anyone will hurt me today. I just can't do crowds. I was already kind of sensitive when Kate and I met and... I'm not getting any better since then. If anything it's worse."

"What is?"

"Phobia. People. Crowds. Doing things."

"But when you bought me my Iron Cross Begonia, did someone else pick it out, or did you do it yourself?"

"I picked it out. It was a present for you, from me. I didn't get very far at the store. There were a lot of plants to choose from right there in the front aisles, and some on the sidewalk under the awning. There weren't many people. I looked at everything under the awning, and made it about two rows inside the store, and decided on that one plant based on what I'd already seen. I couldn't do the whole store. Then I got back in the car and the driver bought the plant I told her to get. I was glad you liked it. I didn't... I didn't do a very thorough shopping job."

"You did all that for my sake? To buy me my begonia."

Master Derek nods.

"Would you have fun today, if you could go?"

Derek nods a little; Stiles can barely see it, but it is there. "Did you have this bad fear when you came to the slave sale and saved me?"

"Yes." Derek shudders.

"Well—you did that. You were manned up."

"No, no, it was awful. It must have been the fifteenth or twentieth sale Uncle Peter took me to. I kept asking him to take me, every time saying that this time I'd do it. I don't mean finding you was awful; it wasn't; that part was good. But the rest... Peter swore he was going to abandon the car with me in it if I didn't get my ass out and into that sale. He said since I told him time and again I wanted a slave that needed me, he'd been going out of his way not to pick one out for me. He'd had plenty slip through his fingers that other wolves recommended for me, knowing I needed one. He always told me any of them could have been perfect... you know, they wouldn't really have been, Stiles, there's no replacement for you, but Peter was being—Peter—and I had wasted so much time going around to all these damn sales and then seeing all the crowds and not going in. He had to manhandle me into that place, because he said no more, if I didn't pick someone out today he was going to do it, and it wouldn't be at a sale.

"I knew I wouldn't be a good enough master to keep a Peter-style slave happy. I thought maybe there really was someone who might need me. So I made Uncle Peter drag me around the place. That way his hand was on me the whole time. If I kept dragging my feet, he had to keep pulling, and with him touching me I had less opportunity to panic, and we went around the outside edge of the floor that way. I wasn't really looking, and we got to the back corner and Peter said, 'Now you have to turn around,' and I looked up and—you were looking right at me. Yeah. So."

"You did it perfectly! That was a perfect slave-purchasing. You did better than anyone else could have done."

Derek grunts skeptically.

"I'm sorry you were afraid, Master, but obviously you had to save me, so you skipped the other sales Uncle Peter took you to, maybe on purpose. You couldn't go into the wrong sale. And you didn't look at anyone else, even when Uncle Peter pressured you to. And it turns out you were really brave to do it. Thank you, Master. I love that you did that."

"Why do you respect me so much? Why do you think I can do no wrong?"

"Because you're my master. And... because you make me happy. So I guess I'm not a Peter-style slave like you were worried about. And sometimes you let me do things that make you happy, which is awesome."

"You're awesome, Stiles. You're awesome. But I'm still stuck in the house and you're going out."

"But you said to stay here."

"No, I keep changing my mind."

Stiles rubs a thumb under his lower lip, a replacement for chewing the thumbnail. "I've been here with you for a year and a half. Have you not been out in a big crowd since that day at the sale when you saved me?"

"You don't have to say 'saved' all the time. I bought you."

"Well. Not only." Stiles moves until the side of his leg touches Derek's. "One time I thought you were going to have Dr. Deaton put me to death."

"What?"

"I mean, I understand you won't, but you didn't kill me yourself—I don't mean you ever would, but I was stupid—so I thought the doctor would do it."

"God, Stiles."

"I was stupid. Right?"

Derek puts an arm around him. "That must have been when you bit my mom."

Stiles nods and presses his head tight up against Derek's chest so he won't notice, but it doesn't help because when he starts crying he makes small crying sounds, and a few tears roll down.

"Stiles... No, you weren't stupid. I should have known you would think something like that. I'm so sorry." Derek nuzzles Stiles. "I'm, uh, bad at this. Listen here. Don't ruin the look with tears." He brushes one away with his thumb. Then he pulls back and gives Stiles a little pat on the shoulder.

Stiles stands and tries to lead Derek to the bedroom door. "Come with me. Keep an eye on me."

Master Derek balks halfway through the living room. "It's getting a little later, like you said. There will be crowds of strangers."

"That's why you wanted to keep an eye on me."

Master Derek licks his lips and doesn't answer. Stiles says, "Let's go," and gives his hand a tug.  
Derek plants his feet.

Stiles presses Derek's fingers. "Would it help if we held hands the whole time?"

"I can hold your hand the whole time? How are you going to shop?"

"It's okay, I have very busy hands. I need more to do with them than I have to do, most of the time. And you can carry the basket. You have good arm muscles."

Master Derek blinks at his own arm muscles.

They get to the kitchen, Stiles coaxing him by the fingertips, but Derek is still resisting. So Stiles takes him back into the bedroom, to the closet door, and opens it to reveal the mirror. Master Derek is easily persuaded back into the bedroom, away from the door leading out of the apartment.

"Look," says Stiles.

"What am I looking at?"

"Us. You and me. In the mirror. Only I'm you. When Kate Argent did that thing... when she... when you got so scared, you were my age. Younger than I am now, actually. See? And look at you now. This is you then—" Stiles puts his hand on his own chest "—and this is you now." He squeezes and swings Master Derek's hand. "You can go outside now, right? You're a big werewolf, and you're going to be okay."

********

Master Derek is unusually pale. He's in a panic-sweat before they even start to mingle with farmers' market crowds. He looks to Stiles for direction. Whenever they approach a vendor's stall, there's a crowd that tightens; they have to go into it, and come back out again, and move along in a lot of human activity, go into another clot of people, and back out again. Stiles never thought about all this before.

A third of the shopping list is done, with Stiles working hard to pull Master Derek with him, before Derek sits on a bench by a fountain and refuses to budge. "I thought maybe I could have fun if I tried, but this is not fun. I'll just sit here and watch the people."

Stiles plunks down next to him. "All day?"

"What else am I supposed to do?"

Stiles points toward a cafe. "Can you make it that far?"

Derek frowns deeply at the cafe. "Yes."

Derek sits at one of the black iron cafe tables and unwinds his hand from Stiles's so that he can go to the counter. Stiles buys them brunch: ham and cheese croissants with baby spinach. Derek only picks at his. Stiles is careful to eat slowly, trying to match his pace to Master Derek's, and passing time by watching the market through the windows. Eventually, it's clear that Master Derek isn't eating at all anymore. Stiles wraps up the leftovers and puts them in the shopping basket. He leaves a tip from his cash. "Master, it's time to go."

Master Derek makes a small sound in the negative, accompanied by a tiny shake of his head.

"I'm sorry, but I don't want to miss the stalls that close early. And look, Master, the brunch time crowd is getting here. You don't want to stay here, do you? Not really, right?"

Derek sighs. "Not really. No." He has a death grip on the decorative iron back of Stiles's chair. Stiles has to gently pry him off, one finger at a time.

Stiles is used to going over every produce offering slowly, but he doesn't want to keep Master Derek standing in the pressing, moving crowds. Stiles tries to hurry, but it bugs him to hurry, because he's worried he's getting bad stuff. Master Derek fiercely grips his hand while Stiles feels and smells produce with his other hand. When he has to get out his wallet, Master Derek clutches his shoulder tight.

Children descend on the farmers' market late in the morning; kids and werewolf pups come looking for leftover, free to take, ready-to-eat produce, the single-serving kinds such as oranges and apples. The pizza guy is offering tiny free sample squares. Master Derek trembles and flinches among all the milling children and teens. Stiles takes a look at some free produce to see if it's worth bothering with, then balances one box of it in Master Derek's arm.

A werewolf about Stiles's age, in human form, his hands folded and eyes downcast, stands in a loosely defined line for free pizza samples. Two mostly human-shaped wolf pups bump each other's shoulders, push each other in aggressive play, and stagger into the teenager standing behind them. He takes a long step back, topples to the stone pavement, and lands on an elbow. He squints up, trying to see what hit him. He's only a couple of yards away from Stiles, and Stiles can see everything. He was interested in him immediately because the young man is so still and quiet, yet he's obviously hoping for food just as much as the more boisterous kids are. "How dare you knock him down!"

The two pups sneer at Stiles, showing their teeth. "Hah! We didn't knock him down, moron."

"This guy's retarded. He falls down all the time. On his own."

"And he smells bad."

Stiles pats Master Derek's arm, eases his hand out of his grip, and goes to help the fallen boy. His hands having no more filter than his mouth does, he flips off the obnoxious pups. It occurs to him that a Hale slave shouldn't be seen in public giving a middle finger, and he balls that hand into a fist and covers it with his other hand.

The pups are curling their lips at Stiles. Then they look past him, over his shoulder, and bolt, pushing their way through the bunch of kids hanging around. Stiles doesn't turn to see what they were looking at. He knows it's Master Derek's frown, reinforced with eyebrows.

Master Derek's voice has an edge. "Did those kids scare you?"

"Naw. They're only kids, and they don't own me." Stiles speaks gently to the strange werewolf, who is evidently in pain. "Is it okay if I touch you to help you up?"

The boy gives Stiles his hand. His claws are out, and they're dirty underneath, as if they've been out, and not cleaned, for a long time. His fingers are bruised purple at the tips and under the claws, and his hair is thickly matted. It's hard to pull him up. He wobbles and lets go of Stiles's hand. "I can stay down here," he says softly. "Go on all fours."

Master Derek asks, "Why don't you get up?"

"Lost my balance... it happens. Lose my balance a lot."

Derek presses, "Can we help you get home? Do you live near here?"

"No."

"Where do you live?"

"I don't know. I had a home..."

"Where is your home?"

"Nowhere anymore."

"Do you have a name?"

The boy opens his mouth and takes a quick breath as if to answer. His eyes go blank, then fill with terror. He closes his mouth again. Stiles guesses, "Is it a secret?"

"No, it's not a secret."

"Do you _remember_ your name?" Master Derek asks him.

The boy shakes his head. "I'm sorry." He pushes himself away from them, on his seat and palms.

Master Derek sets aside the box he was carrying for Stiles and bends down. He pauses, looks at the strange teenager, takes a deep breath and says, "I'm going to pick you up, okay?"

The boy struggles to focus on Master Derek's face, nods and holds a hand out toward Derek's chest. Derek tucks his forearms under the boy's knees and back and picks him up. Stiles piles up the box and basket so he can manage everything himself while Master Derek carries the werewolf boy, and they meet their driver to take them to Dr. Deaton's clinic.

Master Derek puts the boy in the car on one side, gets in the middle, and calls Dr. Deaton. "We found a werewolf boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen, I think with wolfsbane poisoning. No ID and he can't remember his name. Can you meet us? We can be at your clinic in less than an hour." He puts his phone in his pocket and rests his palm lightly on the back of the boy's neck.

Stiles leans and reaches across Derek's lap to give the stranger the leftovers from breakfast. The boy hunches in his seat, turns toward the window, and picks off little pieces of pastry and cheese, but he can't manage the ham. He looks over his shoulder at Stiles. Stiles wishes he would have thought of tearing up the leftover croissant, but now it's too late to take the food back from him. He'd probably think Stiles was really trying to take it away.

Without being prompted, the boy hands the food back and looks away again. Stiles knows the boy gave it back because he saw him leaning over and looking at it. The stranger could be an omega werewolf... or he might have been a slave. Stiles's hands are shaking so badly in sympathy that he can't break up the food any better than the stranger could do it himself. Derek takes the food, bites and tears it into bits and gives it back to the boy, who tries to swallow the bites without chewing. Derek says in a low voice, "Everything hurts, doesn't it," and rubs more firmly at the back of the boy's head. Derek adds, to Stiles, "I'm sure he's been poisoned. Dr. Deaton needs to get it out of him. I'm draining some of the pain but the wolfsbane in his body keeps on hurting him over again."

The stranger hasn't finished his food by the time they get to the clinic. Derek says, "Dr. Deaton will get you something easier to eat." He keeps a firm hand on the boy's shoulder while Stiles touches his opposite elbow, so he doesn't bolt when he hears "doctor" and sees and smells the clinic. But he couldn't bolt if he wanted to. He can't even walk a straight line. Master Derek has to help him through the door.


	18. So Much For Neutrality

********

Dr. Deaton is already there and tells them to come right on in. Master Derek lifts the stranger onto the exam table. Dr. Deaton takes one careful look at the boy's eyes. "You were right, he's been poisoned with wolfsbane. Give me one moment, let me prepare an injection that should help right away."

Dr. Deaton gives the shot in an upper arm, while the boy looks away unprotestingly. Dr. Deaton calls Peter and Alpha Hale, and Stiles is afraid they'll take the strange boy away. "No, they won't," Master Derek assures him. "Dr. Deaton is only going to get their opinion."

Deaton tries gently to learn the stranger's name, with no luck. "Are you a born werewolf, or did somebody Bite you?" He explains aside, to Derek and Stiles, "Sometimes I can tell looking at them, but his symptoms are masking the traits. Possibly Peter will be able to tell us; he's an expert."

"I'm a human. I'm not a werewolf. I'm human."

"Are you a slave?"

Long pause. Then a nod. Then his brow furrows. "Wait. Not anymore."

"You're free now?"

"No, no, I'm not a freeman!"

"What house do you belong to?"

The boy gives Dr. Deaton an acutely miserable look and he stops asking questions.

Dr. Deaton calls a nurse into the room to shave the werewolf boy's head. Master Derek is holding one of his hands. The clippers buzz near his ear, and he reaches out his other hand in Stiles's direction, making a loose grasping motion, but doesn't catch hold. Stiles takes the searching hand in both of his. When the shaving is over, the nurse says it's time to give him a shower. Stiles asks, "Can I wash him? I want to help."

The nurse stays in the bathroom with them and instructs Stiles to ask if he needs any help or has any questions. "Be careful of his skin." With the wolfsbane in the boy's system, every little burn from wearing his clothes too long, every bump, bruise and scrape has refused to heal. Stiles tries to direct the spray over his hand and let it run from his palm, so no water will hit too harshly on the sore spots. Afterward, Stiles blots him with the towel carefully. The nurse dabs ointment onto the sore spots on his shaved head. He's dressed in a short white robe and brought back to the exam room.

There's a knock on the door, and Uncle Peter comes in a second later, without waiting to be called. He takes one look at the stranger on the exam table. "Why, that's Isaac Lahey. What's happened to you? Isaac, do you remember me? It's Peter Hale."

The boy—Isaac—looks at him blankly, then looks away.

Dr. Deaton tells Peter that Isaac's memory has been damaged. Peter glances at Isaac's legs and scalp. "Look at his skin. What a mess. Who did this?"

"We're trying to find that out."

Uncle Peter takes Isaac's chin and looks at his eyes that swirl with colors between human and werewolf. Peter sighs, with a growl behind the sigh. "Born werewolf, it looks like. He should have been old enough to be on the safe side. The Laheys—that's his father's side—are a long line of humans. I know his mother was human. There must have been a werewolf in her line. The new owners could have sent him back to me. They _should have_ sent him back to me. Who did this to you, Isaac? Was it the family I sold you to?"

"I'm sorry," Isaac whimpers. "I'm sorry. I don't remember. I don't remember you selling me. I'm sorry. I don't remember you at all." He covers his temple with the back of his hand, claws still half out.

Alpha Hale, dressed in a grey skirt suit, comes briskly into the room without knocking first, and glances at Uncle Peter. He steps back from the exam table. Alpha Hale introduces herself briefly to Isaac, then looks at his skin and fingertips with a grim expression. She says to Stiles, "Dr. Deaton told me you found this boy at the farmers' market."

"We both found him," says Stiles. "Me and Master Derek together. He went shopping with me."

Alpha Hale stares at Derek for a minute and blinks. "But you don't go out."

Master Derek grabs Stiles's hand—the one not already holding Isaac's hand—entwines their fingers and holds on demonstratively. He mumbles, "I'm not going to make a habit of it."

"How is it, nephew, that every time you do go out in a crowd, you come home with another person?"

"The first time, I went looking for one, you remember," Master Derek growls stiffly.

His mother gives him a squeeze and says, "I am so, so proud of you." Master Derek develops a bright blush and looks at the wall over her shoulder.

Uncle Peter calls up Isaac's records onto his phone. "Started bodyguard, massage level two, started sex companion, well broke to consent... I would have given Isaac to you, Derek, if you had let me pick." He tells Talia, "The Laheys came in a lot. I needed several of those slaves, and I intended Isaac for Derek, but Derek had other ideas. He wanted to do things the hard way and 'make a difference' to some sale-barn slave."

Master Derek's face darkens. "Watch what you say about sale-barn slaves."

"Well," says Uncle Peter, "Stiles is one, so how bad can they be?"

"Don't turn this around on me," says Derek. "I mean it. Watch your mouth."

"Don't speak to your uncle that way."

Talia says, "Boys." Peter and Derek press their lips together and look down and away from each other. "Peter, to whom did you sell the Laheys, then?"

"I sold a bunch off together, to the people who took over Deucalion's house. I sold them Isaac and Isaac's father."

"I told you not to sell slaves to those people."

Uncle Peter waves a hand. "Not because you thought they'd abuse a teenaged pup. You thought selling anybody to them at all violated neutrality. You didn't want any of us to deal with them in business at all. It doesn't matter now. This is the way they treat an innocent boy. So much for neutrality."

Here's a break in the conversation. Stiles speaks up. "Alpha, are you still having company? The food you wanted is in the car."

"I'm not going home right away," says Alpha Hale.

Uncle Peter offers, "I'll stop by Hale House after I leave here, Stiles. Put the stuff in my car and I'll let the kitchen know."

Dr. Deaton finishes the first aid treatment for Isaac. "You may get off the table and sit down." He gestures toward a chair, and Isaac slides cautiously off the table while Master Derek supports him. Isaac looks at the chair, then stares down at the floor in front of the chair and hesitates. Without permission from Derek, Stiles says, "You can kneel here," and points to the spot on the floor at which Isaac was staring. Isaac tries to bend a knee and pitches forward; Derek helps him down. Dr. Deaton gives Isaac a milkshake to sip.

Alpha Hale says, "We don't have his story. Are we sure his owners poisoned him? Could he have run away, and been attacked by hunters?"

"I suppose it's possible, technically," says Dr. Deaton. "But I'm not sure how to speculate after that—how would he have escaped from the hunters after they poisoned him?"

"I don't know. Could he have run away from home, and then gotten exposed to wolfsbane some other way?"

"I doubt it. I have no way of proving it. You can ask him when his memories aren't so foggy."

Peter tries to press Isaac for an answer right away, as to whether he's been sold or has run away. Isaac can't answer him. Master Derek asks Peter to knock it off. Alpha Hale says, "If he was sold after Peter last saw him, then the new owners could have done this to him. We'd better be sure before we formally accuse the people at Duke's old house."

"I'm calling them," Peter informs everybody as he dials. "Yes. The person in charge of the staff, please... Peter Hale. I'm calling about Isaac Lahey... I see. I must get in touch with the people you sold him to. I have new information which suggests that Isaac may be a born werewolf. He could shift at any time. I must ask for him back... Thank you." Peter ends the call. "'He's been sold. We'll get the contact information for the new owners and get back to you.' Quite obviously lying."

Talia says, "This is a serious accusation against those people. There will be a Hale Family meeting to consider whether or not to attack that whole household, based on the original attack on Duke and the recent poisoning of Isaac. But first you have to give those people a chance to give you the information on the home they claim to have sold him to."

"I will wait two days. Derek, do you want to keep Isaac during that time?"

"He's staying with us. You intended him for me, before I bought Stiles. I'll keep him."

Alpha Hale says, "I'll have a servant run some fresh clothes over."

"I'll call those people back in two days, and if they don't give me the contact info by then, I'll assume Isaac turned in their house and they poisoned him and put him out on the street. That boy came to those humans through my hands. It's an outrage." Peter looks at his watch. "You know what, I'm going to go kill them right now."

Talia touches him on the shoulder. "Peter."

Peter, already a step toward the door, stops and cocks his head back to listen.

"Let him get his memories back, first. Besides, you did Kate Argent."

"Yes." Peter's eyes flash red. "I did. All right, I'll wait. Either way," he says to Master Derek, "you can count on keeping him, since you do want him. If those people sold him, which I very much doubt, I'll find out who they sold him to, and buy him back. In the meantime—" he takes out his phone again "—I know for a fact that those people have at least one contract out on Duke. I'll spread the word that I will buy that contract."

Talia frowns. "Then the humans in Duke's old house will be forewarned that I might be coming, as soon as you show that you're not neutral. They might be prepared."

"Don't like challenges anymore?" Peter holds his phone at the ready.

"Fine," Talia decides after a moment. "However, I insist that you emphasize that you do not speak for the whole Hale pack."

Peter is satisfied. "That just leaves the open bounty, and once you agree to kill everyone involved who could pay it, that will take care of that."

Dr. Deaton tells Master Derek, "You should begin to see Isaac's real personality within a few days."

Stiles asks, "Could he be dangerous? Will he hurt Master Derek?"

"I very much doubt it, because he has been a well-trained human, prior to this," says Dr. Deaton. "But I also don't believe this level of docility is normal for him, especially as a new werewolf."

"I should say it's not normal," says Uncle Peter. "I would never have dealt with slaves this demoralized. It's a disgrace."

"But it's not," Dr. Deaton says quietly, "Isaac's fault."

There's red in Peter's eyes, and some wolf fur sprouting on his cheeks and jawline; he's blowing through his nostrils. "Of course it's not Isaac's fault."

Dr. Deaton gives Master Derek some medicine to take home for Isaac. He also sends a shower seat home with them. It's a curved cedar bench that will fit in the shower, with gaps between the seat planks for water to drain through.

Isaac seems offended. "I don't need it. I only lose my balance sometimes."

"Use it only if you're afraid of slipping in the shower," says Dr. Deaton.

"I'm not afraid of anything," Isaac says in a haughty, weirdly calm voice. Stiles stares at him.

"Of course not," Dr. Deaton amends. "Use it only if you feel as though you may slip."

Stiles puts the farmers' market produce for Alpha Hale in Uncle Peter's car. Peter has smoothed out his wolfish appearance, and hugs Stiles before they leave.

********

Isaac is already asleep when Master Derek carries him up to the apartment. Stiles hurries to turn the bedding down, and Derek lays Isaac in the bed in the plant room.

Stiles loosely tucks the bedding over Isaac. Master Derek stands looking at him for a moment, then tells Stiles to get in the shower. Stiles is relieved to fulfill that promise he made this morning, to let himself be marked. Master Derek washes him first. He keeps his palm on Stiles's shoulder, his thumb against his neck, and rubs the soapy washcloth in light circles on his back for much longer than would be needed to get him clean.

Isaac is still asleep while Stiles makes lunch the next day. Unsure as to how much pain Isaac may still have in his gums, Stiles prepares something easy to eat: scrambled eggs and black beans. Stiles has a big helping, himself, and heaps Master Derek's plate.

Derek reads the instructions Dr. Deaton sent along, and tells Stiles how much herbal medicine to give to Isaac. Stiles waits for Isaac to wake up, then offers him his food. Derek removes pain again for him. Isaac seems to perk up a little.

"I'm Master Derek Hale. I don't know if you remember meeting me earlier, or what you remember from the clinic. This is my apartment. You were asleep when I carried you up. You two can get acquainted, if you're rested enough, Isaac. Let me know if anything goes wrong, or if you have any pain. I'm going to go... lurk."

Stiles sits on the edge of Isaac's bed. "I've been here a year and a half, last month."

"How did you get the scar?"

"A long time ago." Stiles waves a hand to show how irrelevantly far back it was. "Not here."

"What kind of things do you need done... what kind of things I can do inside... and lose my balance..."

"Oh, things," Stiles waves a hand again. "Plenty of things."

"I can sew."

"Cool, what, you can sew like, clothes?"

"Mending... hand mending..."

"Awesome, you can do something like that sitting down, if you need to. Hey, at the farmers' market, you were in the line for pizza and never got any. I have my own money, and when your mouth feels better I can buy you some pizza. Would you like that?"

Isaac closes his eyes. "Have you really got money? Why have you got money?"

"Oh. Um, the Hales pay wages. Don't worry, they'll teach you what to do with them."

Isaac curls into a fetal position. Stiles rubs his skinny back, lightly, in case he irritates the sores there, and Isaac goes back to sleep until suppertime.

Stiles cooks some plain beef and rice, which looks boring if you're not sick or poisoned, so he sautees some frozen green beans to go with his own and Master Derek's portions. They eat quietly at the table. Then they bring a plate to the plant room and Derek drains some of Isaac's pain before he tries to eat anything. Stiles brings Isaac a glass of milk, which he downs thirstily. He licks his lips and seems ready to be awake. Master Derek says, "Now if you feel well enough to stand up, Stiles will show you around."

Stiles shows Isaac the room he's been sleeping in. "These are my plants." He rattles off every species and variety. "These are my gardening magazines on the bedside table; help yourself." He leads Isaac by the hand through the living room. "That's the couch, coffee table, you know, stuff like that, that's my tablet, I think Master Derek will buy one for you, too. And here's mine and Derek's bedroom."

Isaac stops, seemingly spooked. Stiles still holds his hand, but Isaac leans back, and no longer returns his grip. "Begging your pardon. Are you a freeman?"

Stiles gasps, his own eyes going wide. "No." He keeps hold of Isaac's hand, pats it with his other hand. "No, no." A light dawns, and Stiles draws a deep breath and relaxes. "Probably you think so because I have very bad manners."

"Oh." Isaac nods, and resumes holding Stiles's hand, willing to be led. Stiles shows him the big bathroom, and the kitchen, including where he keeps the slave drinking glasses.

Master Derek sticks his head in at the archway to the kitchen. "Everything all right?"

Isaac nods and gives a little bow. "We're great," says Stiles. "Need anything, Master?"

Derek shakes his head and disappears again.

Stiles stir-fries vegetables for Master Derek and himself. For Isaac's supper, he cooks some oatmeal to a very soft texture. While Stiles is cooking, Isaac is lying in bed awake, resting. Master Derek comes to the stove and tells Stiles, "Have Isaac sit with us at the table for supper."

Stiles covers the oatmeal and goes to collect Isaac. "He'll make you sit on a chair at the table. Don't worry, it's not because you're a werewolf. He makes me use a chair, too."

Stiles pours a lot of warm milk on Isaac's oatmeal. "This is very good, sir, thank you." When his bowl is empty, Isaac licks his spoon with unabashed swipes of his tongue, then gives a start, blushes, and drops the spoon into the bowl and folds his hands in his lap.

Stiles goes to the stove, and Derek warns, "Only another half-bowl for him tonight, Stiles."

Stiles knows they have to be careful, but it's hard not to fill the bowl to the top with hot milk, once it's half-full of oatmeal. Isaac digs in again. After a couple of bites, he eats more slowly, and looks thoughtful. He arrives at a conclusion: "I think I've been hungry for a long time."

Master Derek's jaw works, and Stiles is afraid he'll push his chair back and violently leave the table, but he stays. His expression is dark over his stir-fried pea pods, and he huffs noticeably.

"I want to read to you awhile," Stiles tells Isaac when he starts leaning sleepily at the table.

Isaac tries to keep his eyes open and sit up straight. "I can read. I can read to you, sir, if you like."

"Not tonight. Bed."

Stiles sits with Isaac and reads some Nancy Drew aloud. Isaac is restless at being read to, but soon enough he falls asleep again. Stiles goes back to the kitchen, where Master Derek is already almost done with the cleaning up. Stiles joins him and tries to help anyway. "Isaac thought I was a freeman."

"Really?"

"I thought what the heck is wrong with me that I look like a freeman? But then I realized, I'm just such a bad slave!"

"You're not a bad slave. You're a good one."

"Okay. Thank you."

Stiles gets into bed with his back to Master Derek, but Derek tugs at him until they're face to face. Stiles keeps his hips tipped far back. Derek gathers him close, and Stiles says, "Um. Master. I forgot to... I mean, yesterday I got up extra early and had to get ready to go to the market, and usually there's time in the afternoons, but then we had to take Isaac to the doctor, and all this time I haven't done... anything about..." Master Derek fits Stiles snugly up against his leg. Stiles gasps, "It's just..."

"So you're hard," rumbles Master Derek. "I can live with that."

"Okay."

Derek runs his fingers through Stiles's hair. "You can put your arm around me," Derek says. "If you want to, I mean."

"Okay, yes, I want to, Master." Stiles puts an arm under Derek's arm, over his ribs.

Derek makes a short noise, as if he's frustrated.

"Sorry, Master." Stiles has no idea what he did wrong. It's extremely difficult to figure that out and at the same time concentrate on not humping Master Derek's firm, warm thigh.

"Stiles—" Derek leans his head back a little and cups Stiles's chin. "It turns me on when you call me 'Master'."

Stiles can't formulate a thought.

"Yeah. I knew that would stump you. You're fine. You can call me 'Master'. It's appropriate. And I like it. A lot."

"Oh. Okay. Master?"

"Yes?"

"I mean, that's right, to call you Master?"

"That's right."

"Okay, good."

Master Derek asks, "Do you want to kiss me? Wait. Um. Look, I am not _asking_ you to kiss me. I'm asking if you _want_ to or not. I want you to say no if it makes you uncomfortable." He cuts himself off with a short growl, low in his throat. "Of course it won't make you uncomfortable, you agree with everything. You've liked every order I've given and every request I've ever made, until this morning." He sighs. "I'm really bad at this. Have you ever cuddled or made out with anyone? Necked? Kissed?"

Stiles shakes his head distractedly, staring into the glint of werewolf glow in Master Derek's irises.

"I have a little bit, but... it didn't turn out so good."

Stiles should be sympathetic and comforting about what Master Derek just said, but his brain froze on the idea of kissing him. "Can I?"

"You can say no. I won't mind at all. Really."

"I mean, can I kiss you? Seriously? I'd love to." Stiles's breathing is heavier and he might have a tiny heart attack. He's never kissed anyone on the lips romantically before.

Master Derek dips his head toward Stiles, and seems to be waiting for him to start the kiss. Stiles parts his lips and becomes conscious of his own breathing, as it bounces warmly back to him from Derek's face. He spends a long moment feeling Master Derek's breath brushing the tip of his nose, and slowly leans in. His lower lip touches Master Derek's upper lip, so now Stiles knows where all the important parts are, and he mouths at Derek's lower lip. Master Derek whimpers. The tip of Stiles's tongue barely touches the soft, wet inside of Derek's lip. Derek moans and strengthens his grip on Stiles's back.

Derek pushes the tip of his tongue past Stiles's teeth, and Stiles gets involved in the warmth and taste of Master Derek's mouth. He's distantly afraid of how hard he is against his master's thigh, but he feels safe in the kiss itself. He frees his arm to pet Derek's upper arm in light swirls and figure eights. Derek moans when Stiles tickles the point of his elbow. Stiles rests his hand on Derek's face, touches his ear, and moves up to stroke his head the way Master Derek sometimes does for him. Derek's cheeks are rough on the sides, smooth over the cheekbones. His hair is coarse at the tips, softer near the scalp. Master Derek groans, pulls back and kisses the corners of Stiles's mouth.

He tugs Stiles's knee over his own upper leg. His dick is hard against Stiles's hip. He kneads Stiles's knee with the pad of his thumb, then hesitates, and while their lips are touching in the middle of a kiss, says, "I guess that's over for now."

"No, why, let me."

"I hear Isaac crying, alone in his room. You'd better go get him."

Stiles gets out of bed and pads to the plant room, knocks softly and opens the door. "Do you want to be alone?"

Isaac's tearful voice is muffled, as if he's speaking into his hands. "No."

Stiles moves closer to the bed and holds out his hand. "Come to bed in the real bedroom."

Isaac's fingers brush Stiles's; he squeezes his fingertips lightly, then grips his hand.

Stiles directs Isaac in behind Derek. "You get in on this side. Master Derek, stay where you are. I want little spoon."

"Hello, Isaac," Master Derek says over his shoulder.

Isaac sniffs at Master Derek's neck once, then presses his back against Derek's and closes his eyes.

Stiles whispers to Master Derek, "I'm gonna go grab a shower."

Stiles touches himself and thinks of what they were just doing together in bed. He comes over his fingers to the thought of how Master Derek let him slide the pad of his thumb over the tip of his nose.

He towels off and goes back to bed. Master Derek eases himself away from Isaac, motioning for Stiles to take his place so Isaac won't be disturbed while he takes a turn in the bathroom. Isaac's bony shoulder blades bump Stiles's not quite as bony ones. For the first time in a long time, another slave snuggles up to Stiles.


	19. Just as Good-Looking

********

Isaac sleeps through Master Derek and Stiles getting up and dressed.

Stiles says, "I put the shower seat in and hung a robe on the door for Isaac. You can mark him when he gets up."

"He's a werewolf. He doesn't need marking."

"How is he supposed to feel safe, then?"

"He's a wolf. He's his own safety."

"But he doesn't feel safe. He hasn't been a werewolf long. He's afraid when he doesn't smell like an owner."

"Would you get into an enclosed space, naked, with a new werewolf? Especially one poisoned with wolfsbane?"

"With Isaac? Yes. You're afraid he's going to bite you? I thought you were only afraid of humans."

"You underestimate your master, Stiles. I'm afraid of everything."

"I could be in the shower with you, to protect you."

"It doesn't matter, anyway. Werewolves don't get marked."

"Uncle Peter marks Roy, doesn't he?"

"Uncle Peter is just this side of eccentric, and he marks all of his slaves with customized cologne."

"But... you said at the clinic that you're keeping Isaac."

"I'm keeping him here with us. That doesn't mean he's my slave."

"But he's _a_ slave. Whose slave is he supposed to be now?"

"He is living with us. We can work out the details some other time."

Master Derek gives Stiles detailed instructions, and Stiles runs out and buys Isaac a phone and some socks. While he's out, he sees a sewing kit in the department store and buys it for Isaac.

Master Derek calls Isaac into the kitchen and shows him his new phone. "Isaac, I'm giving you two emergency numbers besides the hospital and Uncle Peter. One is Dr. Deaton. If you ever feel unsafe here, and need somewhere to go, you can call him. He'll get you someplace neutral and safe. But it's not easy to find permanent places for werewolves without families. So, the next best thing to a completely neutral party I've been able to do is to give you a number for a family friend, Master Damon. He's wealthy, doesn't care for public opinion, and he isn't afraid of werewolves. He knows you might call him if you need him, and he would keep you indefinitely, or a close friend of his would. Does all of this make sense to you?"

"Yes, sir."

Master Derek seems relieved. "Good."

Stiles says, "Seriously, you understand that? That took me months to understand!" 

"Maybe it took me a long time to learn, too," Isaac answers. "I don't remember learning it, but it seems easy to understand."

"So you just, like, know off the top of your head that 'unsafe' is some kind of euphemism for Master Derek doing whatever he wants to do? Like, that he can't do _sexual_ things if you don't feel 'safe'? That never made any sense to me. Who made those rules?"

Master Derek clears his throat and goes into the living room. Stiles rambles on. "I guess the Hales made those rules. But if I were to call someone, like, if I called Alpha Hale as if it was an emergency, every time I felt 'unsafe', I'd never get anything done, and what kind of personal slave would I be then? Not a good one, that's what kind." His fingers are getting tired from making finger quotes.

Isaac fusses with the keypad on his new phone, then steps closer to Stiles without looking up from the screen. "May I ask you something?”

"Sure, of course."

"May I take a picture of you, with my phone? In case I ever have to leave?"

"Take all the pictures you want. But you won't ever have to leave."

Master Derek says Isaac is too weak to do any tasks the first couple of days, but Stiles pulls a kitchen chair over by the sink, has Isaac sit in it, and gives him dishes to dry.

While they wash dishes, Stiles describes, with occasional breaths, Master Damon's household. He tells about the lavish party he attended, the one with all the fancy animals and people and from which he brought home a petit four. He tells about Scott, Scott's mom Melissa, and that he totally even cried a little when she hugged him the first time. Isaac will like Melissa so much.

Fingers lightly enclose Stiles's lower arm and he stops talking and looks up from the sink.

Isaac is standing, looking him in the eye. "Are you telling me all this so I will feel better about having to go there?"

Stiles doesn't move the arm Isaac is holding, but his other arm jolts, a half-body flail. "No! Oh, no, no no no. I was just—Master Derek made me think of Master Damon's house, and I talk, like, all the time, and you are not going anywhere. But you should totally come and visit Scott there with me sometime. You're a much fancier slave than me. You'll be as fancy as Scott when your hair grows back."

"Okay," says Isaac, but he doesn't sound comforted. He sits back down.

"Okay," says Stiles.

Isaac furrows his brow. "Yesterday, did I ask you if you were a freeman?"

"Yeah, you kinda did."

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Don't worry about it," says Stiles.

Isaac is hungry for tasks to do, but he doesn't look antsy, because he's perfect at sitting still. Stiles says he'll teach him how to finger knit, which is easy and he can do it sitting down, or standing up, if he feels well enough. Isaac looks up eagerly. "I learned to finger knit once, a long time ago, and I'd forgotten it. I wonder if I can still do it."

Isaac sits on the couch in his new pajamas and gets to work on three ropes of knitting, which he will sew together to make himself a scarf. Meanwhile, Master Derek marks Stiles.

Derek gets into a robe and lounge pants and a soft T-shirt, and listens to headphones. Stiles snatches up Derek's discarded clothes from the day. He takes away Isaac's pajama top and gives him a shirt Derek has worn. "Here are a few Master Derek clothes. Here are some socks, too. Get different things from me when these don't smell enough like him."

"Yes, sir." Isaac sticks his nose below the shirt's neckline and inhales. "When should I go to bed?"

"Why don't you just ask Master Derek if you can sleep with us? He won't mind you asking. If you cry in there alone, he's going to bring you in with us anyway."

"I won't cry anymore."

Stiles takes Isaac by the hand and leads him into the kitchen, where Master Derek is having coffee with his music. Stiles gestures at him, so Derek lifts one headphone and one eyebrow. Stiles says, "Master, Isaac wants to sleep with us tonight, and I want him to."

"Okay," says Master Derek.

Isaac's knees buckle and he sinks to the floor and folds his hands in his lap. Master Derek says, hardly looking at him, "Isaac, chair." Isaac makes a desperate scramble for a kitchen chair and sits in it, eyes downcast.

He takes his herbal medicine mixed into a dessert of applesauce with bits of candied ginger. Stiles sees him into Master Derek's bed early. Isaac asks, "Do I have to get into my pajamas again?"

"You can wear Master Derek's clothes to bed, if you want to."

"Thank you."

Stiles cleans up a few things and does a little bit of work in the plant room. Master Derek sets up a Chinese Checkers game on the kitchen table. "Want to play?"

"Yeah, of course, Master, just let me wash my hands first." As he seats himself, Stiles goes on, "There was always a game of this set up on the floor of the common room back at kitchen training."

"And now you get to play it at the table."

Master Derek wins, twice. Stiles has to work at losing the second time. Master Derek says, "You don't have to let me win. It's just as fun to me, either way."

"I know, you keep saying that, but... does it make you mad if I let you win?"

"Not really. I like winning. You should try it sometime."

Isaac doesn't move when Master Derek and Stiles join him in bed. He's breathing softly, far over on his own side. Derek eases Stiles backward into his arms. Tonight, Stiles isn't shy about tilting his ass back until it fits with Derek's crotch. Derek strokes Stiles's elbow; even with just his light touch, it aches briefly when Derek's fingertips move the thin skin over the elbow joint. He brushes down Stiles's forearm, pets the back of his hand so lightly that it tickles, grabs up Stiles's hand, brings it back over Stiles's shoulder to his own mouth and kisses Stiles's fingers. Stiles is really glad he hasn't been chewing his nails.

When Stiles speaks, his voice is smaller than he had planned on. "You wouldn't ever free me, would you?"

Derek's breath leaves him in a rush; his long exhale lingers. Finally he takes another breath. "No. I promise."

Stiles puts his hand over his own heart and breathes, "Thank you." He continues briskly, "I didn't think you would. I was just checking."

********

Wednesday after work, Derek brings Uncle Peter home with him.

"Good evening, puppy," says Peter.

"Hello, Uncle Peter. It's nice to see you."

Derek gives an aggrieved sigh and hangs up Peter's coat for him.

Isaac leans in close to Stiles's ear and says shyly, "I remember that man from the clinic. And I think I do know him from before. Is that right? I remember his cologne."

"Yes, that's right. Uncle Peter bought and sold you once."

Peter asks Isaac, "How are you? Feeling better?"

Isaac nods, standing with his hands overlapped in front of himself. He's wearing Master Derek's clothes from the day before.

Peter tells Derek, "I called those people back. They lied about the contact info—they don't have any. They definitely know what happened to him." He asks Isaac, "Do you remember what they did to you, exactly?"

Master Derek says, "Give him more time. He's barely remembered his old home address."

"Was it the same as Duke's old place?"

Master Derek answers for Isaac. "Yes."

"I'm going to kill them anyway, you know."

"But you want Mom to watch your back, I hope.”

"That would be nice. And she won't make a move without Isaac corroborating my suspicions. I'll need a lot of friends—or just your mom—if I'm going to do this. She's been neutral up until now and those humans have been counting on that."

Isaac says, "I'm sorry I don't remember. Sorry to make you wait."

"Don't worry about it," Master Derek says quickly. "Uncle Peter, I will let you know when he is ready. No more questions until then."

Stiles didn't have much warning that Uncle Peter would be eating supper with them. Derek called him two hours ahead; that gave Stiles time to make pizza dough. What he forgot to do was give the oven an extra long time to preheat. Peter doesn't seem to mind sitting on the couch with one leg crossed over the opposite knee, and telling Derek all kinds of things that Derek seems to either be neutral on or biting his tongue about. 

Thank goodness for Isaac's finger knitting, or Isaac would be desperate for something to do, some way to be helping. The pizza toppings are all set to go. There's nothing to do but wait for the oven.

Stiles's anxiety over how long dinner takes to be ready reduces some of his enjoyment of the pizza, and he's ashamed that he didn't offer Uncle Peter a timely meal. Peter doesn't remark on it either way. He and Derek each have a bottle of beer, and Peter keeps up the stream of talk in his perpetually mild tone. Master Derek doesn't have much to say; the places where he wants to comment are shown by a twitch of his jaw.

When Uncle Peter is getting ready to leave, he winks at Stiles and tells Master Derek, "Isaac needs some time to heal, but when he's healthy again, and he's gained some weight, he'll be prettier than the slave you already had."

As soon as Isaac closes the door behind Peter, Derek turns to Stiles. "You've been putting Isaac in my shirts."

"Yes, I have."

"Do we need to buy him some more clothes?"

"No. He's got adequate amounts of clothes, Master."

When Derek tosses aside his work shirt, Stiles hangs it in the closet instead of putting it in the hamper.

In the shower with Master Derek, Stiles says, "You could have had Isaac all along. He's better-looking than I am."

"No, he isn't."

"Uncle Peter says—"

"Uncle Peter is full of it. You are just as good-looking as Isaac."

Stiles is filled with a warm glow. He's unused to this feeling. He feels it as it spreads over his entire self, matching the tingle of heat from the shower.

For Isaac's sake, when Stiles is laying out Master Derek's clothes, he lays out the same shirt two days in a row. "Didn't I wear this yesterday?"

"It's still clean enough," says Stiles. He wants it to really smell like Master Derek when he gives it to Isaac to wear. Whenever Derek tosses a shirt someplace after he's worn it for a day, Stiles picks it up and smooths it out and hangs it up in the closet again. He temporarily sacrifices, for Isaac's sake, folding the used shirts in his own drawer to add scent to his own clothing.

Master Derek is worried about overworking Isaac, but Isaac wants tasks and Stiles really wants to give them to him. Master Derek says, "Well—" and Stiles knows they have won.

Derek pulls some trousers out of his dresser, a pair he would normally wear to work. "Can you sew up the pocket on these? I would normally send them out..."

Isaac's fist is tight at his side. Stiles knows that gesture. It's what you do when you want to make grabby hands but are holding back.

Derek is holding the pants out to Isaac, but leaning away, as if he might pull them back at any moment. "It won't be too hard for you?"

Isaac gives a small, rapid shake of his head, lips pressed together.

Master Derek leans closer to Isaac, until the pants are within polite grabbing range.

Stiles watches Isaac do the sewing. He draws the thread out long and graceful in between the tiny stitches. His fingers are long. His concentration emphasizes his eyelashes. When he's done, he hands the pants to Stiles and says, "Here."

Stiles peers at the new seam. "Of course, I don't know much about sewing. But I think this looks better than the stitching in the rest of the pocket. Thanks for doing this!"

Isaac hangs around nervously; he can't concentrate on the adorable cat videos Stiles gives him to watch, and gets flustered when he can't remember how to make a Jacob's ladder out of yarn. Stiles wonders why he's so keyed up, and Isaac admits: "Master Derek hasn't checked my work. He may see it later and be dissatisfied."

Stiles asks Master Derek to pass the trouser repair so that Isaac will calm down.

"I'm sure it's fine," says Derek.

"Master, will you please, please look at the work? For like a second? He needs to know you looked at it."

"Sure." Master Derek looks at it. "It's good."

"Thank you." Stiles returns the work trousers to the bedroom and asks Isaac, "Did you hear that?"

"Yes. Thank you. My master didn't used to check my work directly. My dad would check it and approve it before he showed the master."

Stiles makes a sympathetic sound in his throat. "That must be so hard. Knowing your dad isn't here to check your work for you. Is there any way to get a message to him? Let him know where you are?"

Isaac lowers his eyes. "I don't know."

"You mean you don't remember how that works where you used to live? Do you want Uncle Peter to find out? We can ask him to look into it."

Without looking up, Isaac wraps his fingers around Stiles's wrist. "Please don't talk to Peter about my father."

"What about Dr. Deaton? We could see if he knows anybody—"

Isaac shakes his head. His hold on Stiles's wrist gets briefly tight enough to show that the conversation is over.

********

Stiles suggests marking Isaac for extra emotional security for him during the full moon. Derek dismisses the idea. "And make him wear his own clothes. He has plenty. I'll be home from work early, long before moonrise, and help him with the shift." Master Derek never seems to shapeshift on the full moon, or at any other time.

Stiles is messing with his ponytail palms in the plant room just after lunch, when claws prick his nape. He shouts, claps a hand over his neck, and turns around. Isaac is staring at him with glowing eyes, breathing hard. He takes a shuffling step closer, bows his head and sniffs all around Stiles's neck, turns away and snorts out the scent. He leans back in and sniffs again, his face touching Stiles's throat; he grasps Stiles's wrists, raises them and presses his nose against the skin. For a long moment he looks directly into Stiles's eyes, then licks experimentally over his own lower teeth. Short strands of fur puff out on his jawline. Stiles moves to withdraw his hand, but Isaac tightens his grip.

"Let go?" Stiles asks quietly.

Isaac stares at him, seeming not to understand, and his grip only gets tighter.

"Let go."

Isaac glances at his hand and drops Stiles's wrist. His eyes go wide. "I'm sorry. Sir, I shouldn't have touched you, sorry, sorry."

"You can touch me. We can hold hands if you want."

Isaac puts his hand out and Stiles takes it. Stiles asks, "Want to do something while we wait for moonrise?"

"I don't know if I can wait for moonrise."

"What do you mean?"

"I might be a wolf before then. I don't know what to do to stop it. I'm sorry!"

"But that's not a big deal. Werewolves are werewolves all the time. Whether they're in human form or not."

"But I'm not a wolf, not really!" Isaac's eyes flash, and he tightens his hold on Stiles's hand. This time Stiles squeezes back.

"Do you want me to take a break from plants and do something with you?"

"Yes. What can I do to help you?"

"We can do something fun. You don't have to do any tasks. Just relax, and wait for the werewolf thing to work itself out."

"It won't."

"I could read to you. Would you like that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys? You want to pick?"

"If—if you want me to."

"You don't have to, but I would pick Nancy, so if you prefer the Hardy Boys, you should pick them."

"But you want Nancy Drew."

"I want to read whatever would relax you."

"Then... Hardy Boys."

"Excellent job picking. Let me wash my hands, you can come with me or I'll meet you on the couch."

Isaac chooses to follow Stiles while he washes his hands. Isaac brushes with his fingertips at the fur on his own jawline, rubs his hand down his face, and gives a frustrated sigh. They sit on the couch, with a pillow for Stiles's elbow and one for Isaac's lap. Stiles asks him if he's comfortable, picks a Hardy Boys he hasn't started yet and begins reading. Isaac watches the text, too. Stiles asks him if he's pronouncing the words right.

"You're doing fine, sir."

"Thanks—but I'm pretty sure you know more words than I do."

Isaac lays his head on Stiles's shoulder. After a time, while Joe Hardy is mid-sentence, he says, "Master Derek said he would be home early."

"Yes, but not for hours yet. Are you okay?"

Isaac shakes his head.

"What can I do to help you?"

Isaac makes a fist against his forehead and growls over his wrist. "Nothing."

"I'll call Master Derek and see where he's at."

"Don't bother him."

"It won't be a bother, I'll check in and let him know you're anxious."

"I'm not too anxious. I can handle it."

"I'll just update him. He'll want to know how you're doing."

"Tell him I'm fine and not to bother about me."

"I'll text him."

Isaac doesn't object.

"Isaac wondered when you're coming home.  
"he wolfed out a little bit and he's scared I think  
"but he doesn't want you to know  
"that he's scared I mean"

Derek texts back that he won't be home for a while, but to "call Master Damon if Isaac gets really anxious, and see if you can get Scott to come over and help him with the shift."

"k thanks see you later master  
"sry I mean Master"

Isaac stands up. "It's not coming back. The feeling wouldn't go away before, and now it isn't coming back, but I know it's going to."

"The feeling? You mean the shifting feeling?"

"Yes."

"It's okay, just let it happen when it happens."

"No!" Isaac roars. An instant later he looks as if he frightened himself with his outburst. He gives Stiles a pleading look and reaches out to him briefly, then drops his hands to his sides and looks ashamed and confused.

Stiles stands up and holds his arms open. Isaac reaches for him again, and Stiles hugs him. Isaac whispers into his ear, "You shouldn't do this. I might turn into a wolf."

"You are a werewolf, you are going to turn, it's going to happen, it's supposed to happen that way."

"No it _isn't!_ "

"But you were born to be a werewolf, Uncle Peter says."

"It doesn't matter. I'm not going to turn. Begging your pardon for being so contrary."

"You seem super anxious. I should call Master Damon."

Isaac pulls back partly out of the hug, so they only have each other by the arms. "Why?"

"Because you seem worried. You could use some help, and I don't know what to do."

"You can help me. Please, don't call anyone."

"But Master Derek said—"

"I don't care what Derek said!" Isaac's eyebrows are heavy, his lower teeth prominent, his eyes glowing. Stiles draws back and sets his foot. Isaac can't talk about Master Derek that way.

"I'm sorry," says Isaac; it comes out as a growl, and ends as a snarl.

"I'm following Master Derek's suggestion to call Master Damon."

Isaac drops into a crouch. He's more than half-wolfed, with lots of dark brown hair where he was shaved down to short fuzz; blackish fur on his neck and cheeks, and teeth jutting. "No! Not Damon! He's one of the safe places."

"He's safe, yes, you can trust—"

"Don't call him! This is a safe place. I want to stay here." Isaac goes into a hunched walk on hands and feet, and disappears into the master bedroom. Stiles takes this opportunity to text Scott directly, to see if he can get permission to come.

Scott texts back right away. "I'm not allowed out on full moon nites normaly"

When Stiles explains, Scott replies: "Since its a emergency idk  
"Let me find Master Damon  
"The butler will never let me out tonite but Master maybe will"

And a few minutes later:  
"This house is huge  
"Maybe I should text him??"

Stiles types, "Text me back when u can. Thx so much"

Thunking sounds are coming from the bedroom. Stiles leans in at the doorway. Isaac has pulled out all of the dresser drawers. He paws at the clothes until they're scattered over the bed and floor, and snuffles through them. He raises his head, huffs, heads for the closet, and yanks shirts off of hangers and smells them. His claws snag one of Master Derek's work shirts.

"Hang on, Isaac, be patient, I've got something for you, I'm sure we can find something..." Stiles goes into the bathroom and pulls one of Derek's printed T-shirts out of the hamper. Isaac growls, low and ongoing as he sniffs hard over the shirt. He tugs on it, and Stiles lets him have it. Isaac drops the shirt on the floor and digs at it with his claws.

"Don't make a nest out of it. Put it on. Here, I'll help."

Isaac scuttles sideways and watches Stiles pick up the shirt. Stiles tries to lift Isaac's arm and put his hand through a sleeve, but Isaac's partially shifted arm is high and tightly bent. The point of his elbow sticks the sleeve in place halfway on. Stiles suggests, "Maybe we can finish if we put the neck on over your head and then pull the whole thing over your back. Please relax. Careful, don't rip it."

Isaac willingly pushes his head through the neck opening, but they still can't get the shirt all the way on. The collar stops at Isaac's partially wolfed ears. His stuck hand flops; he sits back and raises the hand that was supporting him on the other side, falls sideways and ends up with the shirt pushed forward over his face.

"Maybe this was a bad idea. Hold on, I think I can fix it. I hope the Master Derek scent is relaxing, anyway." Stiles pulls at the shirt where it's taut against Isaac's elbow, to make room for his arm to pull through. With his other hand, Stiles picks the shirt forward over the pointed tip of Isaac's ear.

Isaac fully shifts. His narrow lower jaw shoots under the T-shirt neckline, his upper jaw juts through the opening; he chews on the collar and wets it with drool. His back curves and fur sprouts along his spine. He kicks and snags the bottom hem, and is stuck with one foreleg, one rear leg, and his face in the shirt. He growls, kicks again, and rips the front of the shirt.

"Let's not wreck it." Stiles tries to roll the shirt off over Isaac's shoulders at the same moment that Isaac whips his head around, the shirt still covering his eyes, and gnaws at the fabric. One of his lower teeth nicks Stiles's finger. "Ouch." Stiles inspects his finger, wipes the scrape on his pants. "Watch the teeth."

Isaac freezes. He gives a moan, a groan, and a quiet, high-pitched whimper. He scuttles backward on his butt and wiggles under the bed. Stiles turns on the bedside lamp and gets on hands and knees, to see Isaac curled up with the torn shirt over his nose.

Stiles gets a text alert and backs into a kneeling position to read it. "Master Damon said since its a favor to u and not running around in packs howling at teh moon I may go out"

"Thank you so much Scott. We’ll expect you." Stiles squints under the bed. "My friend Scott is coming over, Isaac."

"Master Damon's slave." Isaac's voice is mostly human. "You met him at a party for slaves."

"You have a good memory. Can you come out from under the bed?"

Isaac crawls out, arm all the way through the problem sleeve, with the rest of the shirt dangling. Stiles helps him to take it off his arm and get it on over his head and both arms; the front is torn, but at least now he's wearing it properly. Isaac sniffs loudly, drags his palm across his nose, then swipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "Do I have to go as soon as he gets here? Let me wait until Master Derek comes home, you have to let me beg for another chance."

"No, no. You're not going anywhere! Scott is only coming over to see you, to help you."

"I bit you!"

"Barely a scrape. A little scratch like that can't turn me."

"I know that, sir. That's not the point!"

“I hardly even feel it. You didn’t break the skin, it might not even bruise. Do you want to get into the bed?"

"I can't get into Master Derek's bed. He's going to get rid of me. He can't be here all the time to protect you, and I might bite you again."

"On the couch, then."

Isaac shuffles into the living room and drops obediently onto the couch. Stiles brings him a glass of orange juice and a washcloth for his face.


	20. Shift

********

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wolfed out," says Isaac, into his juice glass.

"What's done is done. Werewolves wolf out. Just, you know, be good, like you almost always are."

Isaac nods and curls up with his juice. Stiles sits next to him and reads silently to himself.

"I can't hold it forever," Isaac says fearfully a moment later.

"Can you hold it until Scott gets here? He knows all about wolfing out. Can I do anything to help you in the meantime?"

"Give me something to do."

Stiles has Isaac help transplant a few exuberant prayer plants.

Isaac takes his hands out of a pot and looks up. "He's here. Mr. Scott's here. I need to get dressed."

"No, leave the T-shirt on, you're fine."

Isaac drops into a crouch, half-shifting, smearing dirt from his hands onto the carpet. His elbows cause trouble with the sleeves again. Stiles helps Isaac until the shirt is around his neck and flopping down, dragging under his hand-paws. He stumbles out of the plant room on all fours and back into the master bedroom.

"Isaac, don't go under the bed. You know Scott is here." Isaac slithers out of sight. Stiles goes to let Scott in. When Scott's not in his footman's uniform, he wears suits, and a brilliantly shiny watch. His hair always looks pettable, and the material of his suit looks soft.

"He's under Master Derek's bed." Stiles leads Scott to the bedroom. "Scott's here. Please come out and act pleasant."

It sounds as if Isaac's mouth is partially shifted, and probably covered by T-shirt. "Please inform Mr. Scott that I can't go with him right now."

"Go with him? I want him to be able to see you. He's here to help."

A high-pitched snarl uncoils from under the bed.

"Your master doesn't want you to hide under the bed, that's why he asked me to come and help you."

"He's not my master!" The end of the last word is dripping with spit. Isaac has lost control of his lips and jaws. He darts out, almost fully wolfed, wearing the torn shirt like a collar and cape. His front toes are so long they're almost fingers, and his rear legs aren't quite right. His ears are rounded off, and move back and forth with an odd slowness. His mouth is cracked open and drool is released out the corners of his lips. He steps sidewise, keeping his face toward Scott. Then he wheels and blurs back into the plant room.

They can hear him in there, half-sobbing, half-snarling, muffled more than he should be from being only in the next room. Sure enough, when Stiles stands with his hands on the door frame and leans in, Isaac is nowhere to be seen. Spluttering, threatening noises, mixed in with whimpering, are coming from under the bed.

Stiles smacks his palm to his forehead and scrubs his hand down off of his chin. "Sorry about this. We need one less bed in this house."

Scott gives him a soft half-smile. "Hey, I'm here to help."

Stiles backs off to let him pass, but Scott doesn't go into the room right away. "Let him take his time and calm down. Which reminds me. You've never seen me wolf out, have you?"

"No. You're always human-looking."

"Want to see?"

"Sure."

Scott shifts his ears, teeth, claws and brow, not enough to hurt his clothes, and wrinkles his nose at Stiles.

Stiles grins. Scott sticks his tongue out from between his long and pointy canines. "Cool, right?" He clacks and gnashes his teeth. "Want me to bite you?"

The bed tips up. Isaac, in half-shift, eyes blazing, is lifting the frame on his shoulders, his shirt torn in pieces at his feet and one raggy strip of it hanging off of one arm. He roars, throws up his hands and tosses the bed backward off of his shoulders. He takes one step in Scott's direction and roars again. The bed tips back and forth on its edge in slow motion, as if it might end up balanced on its side. Then it falls. Stiles reaches toward it from across the room, cries out, "Isaac, catch it!"

The bed leans into a four-tier stand of plants. For a second Stiles thinks the plant stand and the bed will hold each other up.

Isaac is staring and showing his teeth at Scott. The bed and the plant stand fall. The crash rattles the walls and windows and shakes the leaves of all the plants in the room. Isaac ducks, startled, and turns toward the mess. 

Stiles rushes into the room. "Isaac, how could you?"

Isaac seems bewildered.

Scott enters and Isaac whips his head around, then Scott and Isaac are facing off. Isaac makes a lot of noise and flexes his clawed fingertips.

"Isaac, stop it. You wrecked my plants! Please help me clean this up."

Scott is staring silently at Isaac, hackles up on his nape.

"Scott!"

Scott edges toward Stiles, watching Isaac. As soon as Scott turns toward Stiles instead of facing off with Isaac, Isaac sinks to his knees.

Stiles extricates little plants from cracked pots, and pops plastic trays back into shape so they can be re-filled with soil. "One of you get that bed off and then lift the shelf, please, I have to see if I can save anything it landed on."

Isaac crawls over to lie across Stiles's feet, and rolls onto his back. Stiles pokes his belly. "Get up." Isaac doesn't get up. He flops off of Stiles's feet and scrambles under a wrought-iron table covered in plants, on the opposite side of the room. "Don't tip that over," Stiles begs, without much hope of affecting Isaac's behavior.

The bed landed on the stand upside-down, at an angle. Scott picks up the bed frame and sets it in place. He tosses the box spring and mattress onto it. The blanket will have to be sent out for cleaning, but Scott straightens the sheets, then flops across them and slowly rights the plant stand with his werewolf-strong fingertips.

Stiles cups a crushed spider plant in his palms. He nestles it in an empty, dented plastic pot and looks under the biggest pieces of broken pottery to make sure he isn't missing any small plants underneath. "Oh, no, look at this carpet. I have to get the vacuum cleaner—or—no—that won't even work for the green stains—and some of the dirt was wet—it's mud—and I have to re-pot all these babies first—"

Scott's face looks human again. "Let's get Isaac settled, first."

"We won't have time to get all this dirt out of the carpet before Master Derek gets here! Look at this mess."

"Stiles. Buddy. Master Derek won't care if you get it done now. Let's get Isaac cleaned up and calm for when he gets home."

"But this room... my flat of begonias..."

"Tell me what to do to save some of these plants. We aren't even going to vacuum. Okay?"

"No, I have to do something about this carpet."

"I don't think so. You don't want to vacuum wet dirt, anyway. Tell me what to do to help."

"Look for all the ones with crushed leaves. I need those separate, so I can trim them. The ones with crushed _stems_ I don't know. I have to go on the Internet to find out if I can save their lives. Fuck. Shit—sorry for my language. Maybe they can be splinted?"

"Let me see what I can find quick on my phone."

"Try looking up 'how to save damaged baby plants or if there's nothing you can do'. Or—no—better—try anything you can find about broken stems."

Isaac comes out from under the wrought-iron stand, without tipping it over, almost entirely human except for some extra sideburns. He gets on his knees before Stiles. "Please let me stay. You can whip me if you want—I'm sure I've never been whipped—I've been a good slave my whole life until now."

"Get up and help me."

"It's not really his fault." Scott chews his lip. "I think it's mine. Hey, Isaac. I wasn't really going to bite him. My bad, I should have thought."

Stiles pokes at one of Isaac's fuzzy wolf sideburns. "What is this about biting me?"

"Isaac thought I was going to bite you."

"What? Why?"

Scott waggles a thumb at the doorway. "I asked if you wanted me to bite you. Oops."

"... Oh!" Stiles's eyes go wide. "No, Isaac, Scott would never bite me. He was just goofing around."

"I should know better than to goof around like that."

Isaac sits on the floor, holding his toes, knees up, rocking. "I wasn't going to hurt anyone."

"I know, buddy," says Scott.

"They said I was."

Stiles says, "Who did? Who's 'they'?"

Isaac shrugs and frowns obstinately.

Stiles leans down and traces his thumb across Isaac's forehead. "Did somebody say you were going to hurt someone?"

Isaac nods, his face crumpling.

"Do you remember who?"

Isaac shakes his head and his frown gets even deeper. "Don't keep asking me to remember things—people—whatever—I don't know!" He yanks off the last strip of Master Derek's tattered T-shirt and inspects it closely, as if stretching the fabric between his hands calms him. "I can't see a way to save it. The logo is torn through."

Scott looks at his phone again. "Internet says, tape."

"Tape?"

"It says just tape, any kind of tape, can help put a cast on little broken stems and save them."

Stiles grabs at the air near Scott's phone and cranes to see the screen. "Seriously? Let me see that. Tape? That sounds too easy."

"It does say it doesn't always work. If the damaged spot is too big, you have to cut it off below there and try to let it grow back."

"It's something to start with. Isaac, stay. I have to dig in the kitchen for some tape." Stiles finds masking tape. Scott helps him get the plants into a triage arrangement on the planting table. Stiles presses the heels of his hands to his eyes to calm himself. "I'll start with these baby ones that need taping, you guys do the big ones that only came out of their pots."

"What should I do with this?" Isaac holds out the T-shirt to Stiles as if it's an injured animal. "I can't save it."

"I'll take care of it." Stiles folds it up and places it on the windowsill, even though it's unsalvageable and he's going to throw it away. It can't be saved for a rag, or Isaac will notice it and be upset.

Crushed, wet leaves and dirt are ground into the carpet every time the boys pick up plants and pots, or step to place one back on the shelves. Isaac and Scott work more slowly than Stiles does. There aren't as many individual plants harmed as Stiles had thought at first. Some of them can be stuck right back into pots, because their roots held a nice protective coating of soil around them. "I should vacuum," Stiles says again.

"If you really want to do that, I can get Isaac settled in Master Derek's bed and wait for the next round of shifting."

"I'm not going to do it again," Isaac says quietly.

Scott gives his arm a gentle nudge. "Yeah, you are."

"Isaac. You may go and sit on the couch again. We'll start this over."

Scott objects. "Not the couch. Get in your master's bed. Then you'll smell more like him."

"He doesn't want me for a slave. I shouldn't get in his bed."

"Do what Scott says. Master Derek asked for him to help. And anyway... he's right about this floor. I can't do a darn thing with it until it dries. I'll come with you."

The three of them go into Master Derek's bedroom, Stiles as exhausted as if he's done a full day of outdoor gardening.

Scott sits on the bed and crinkles up his eyes at Isaac. "You do know everything is going to be okay, don't you? It really is. My first wolf-out cost four thousand, twenty-six dollars in damages, and I was lucky it was so little. I know the amount because the head gardener yelled at me about it. It was a stained-glass window and part of the moon garden. My second one, well, my master got angry about that one. My uniform was new just that morning. But I'm still with him. It's going to be all right."

"Did your master—did Master Damon know he was buying a werewolf?"

"I was a human. He already owned me. Then one time Peter Hale went on a tear and _oops_." The only detail of Peter's "tear" that Scott gives is raised eyebrows and a nod, with his lips pressed together. "How do you feel? Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, thank you, sir. I'm sorry for being difficult and making you come over—er—not that your company is unpleasant."

Scott grins. "That's all right."

Isaac holds the back of his hand over his eyes, and peeks out from underneath it. "Stiles smells like Master Derek. But you don't smell like anybody."

"Werewolves don't get marked."

"I know," Isaac moans. "I just—your master—"

"He's pretty traditional in some ways."

"But he's kept you."

"Yes, definitely. Even though I'm not personally marked, there's no reason for me to be afraid of being sold. I was born there, and I'll die there."

"I still think Master Derek needs to mark Isaac," Stiles says firmly. Isaac sighs and wiggles closer to Stiles on the bed. "He likes to smell like people."

Scott hesitates. "Well, admittedly..."

Isaac peers out from underneath his hand with more obvious curiosity.

"You can't smell it, but I keep tokens on me, to make me feel like I smell like the master. When he gives me my allowance in cash, I keep some of it on me even if I save or spend the rest. One Christmas he gave me an ornament, and I put it on a keychain." Scott takes it out of his pocket and shows it to them. It's a tiny wooden rocking horse, painted in red, green and white. "Silly things like that."

Stiles and Isaac both give Scott weak smiles, and Stiles rubs Isaac's hip in sympathy. He worships pretty much everything Scott does as a prettier and more skilled house slave, so he won't say anything. But he thinks Isaac deserves more than to have to imagine smelling like Derek.

Isaac sits up. He and Scott can hear Master Derek coming down the hall. Stiles puts his hand over the back of isaac's hand and insists in a whisper, "No groveling, no begging!"

"But I—"

"Apologize nicely and that's it. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy."

Isaac is trembling when they meet Master Derek at the door.

"I see you had to call Scott. How bad did it get?"

Isaac says, "Hello, sir. I'm terribly sorry for disturbing you at work and cutting your day short. I damaged some plants. Including some begonias."

Stiles tries to keep his sigh so quiet that werewolf ears can't hear it.

"Damaged? Damaged how?"

"I tipped a bed over on them, sir. I knocked over a whole rack of all kinds of plants."

"You what?" Master Derek leans into Isaac's space. "Those baby begonias are very important to Stiles! Apologize to him right now."

Stiles is giving Master Derek furious little headshakes. When Derek's nose is nearly touching Isaac's, Stiles intervenes verbally. "Master, he apologized already. He was totally humble. You would have been so impressed."

Master Derek glances at him, and Stiles gives him another pleading look. Derek seems to get the message. "Sorry, Isaac. I..." he glances at Stiles. "No harm done?"

"Not really, no," Stiles says in relief, but Isaac grabs Stiles by the hand and makes him extend a finger to show Master Derek. Stiles wasn't going to mention the tooth-scrape on his finger.

"I bit Mr. Stiles. See? Right there."

Master Derek looks at and sniffs the scraped spot, and asks Stiles, "Did you wash it out with soap?"

"Yes, Master."

"How did it happen?"

"Trying to get him untangled from a shirt."

"I'm so sorry. _Please_ —" Isaac stops when Stiles pretend-coughs. Isaac collects himself and goes on: "I tore the shirt. I can't fix it. It was yours. One of your band T-shirts."

"Hm. Which band?"

Isaac tells him. Derek makes a dismissive gesture accompanied by a short hum of indifference. Isaac gives a long sigh.

"Thank you for your help, Scott. You can go home. The driver who brought me is waiting for you. Thank your master, too."

"I will, sir. Stiles, I'll text later to check that everything is okay. Nice meeting you, Isaac." He gives a little bow and an encouraging smile before he leaves.

Master Derek says to Isaac, "I'm not planning to wolf out, but you don't have to worry about whether I'm shifting tonight or not. You don't have to suppress your change."

Isaac twists his hands and starts to speak, but only a harsh breath comes out. He begins again. "Is there anything I can do for you? Anything special you like on the full moon?"

"Not especially," says Master Derek. "I might have some coffee."

With the way the afternoon has gone, Stiles has forgotten to start the machine. He makes a dash for it, but stops himself because Isaac will want to do this for Master Derek. Stiles excuses himself to open the plant room window, to dry out the mud that's ground into the carpet. And then there's supper.

Isaac helps with the preparation. He eats sitting at the table in mostly human form, though his claws keep getting in the way.

Derek tells him again, "Don't worry, Isaac. Don't fight it."

It's a relief to clear the table and do the dishes. Stiles firmly excuses Isaac and his pointy claws from using the dish towel. Master Derek does the drying himself.

Isaac spends most of the evening near the window, listening to things Stiles can't hear. Isaac howls, and other wolves howl back, distant and near. He lets a lot of time lapse in between his howls, standing taut, listening. They all hear a fight way down in the street. After a while, Derek makes some popcorn.

"I could have done that," Stiles whispers, as if a full moon is suddenly an event during which you don't speak aloud.

"You want some?"

Stiles nods and dips into the bowl. Master Derek stands by the window with Isaac, eating popcorn. Sometimes he stops chewing, as if he's listening, too.

Stiles goes to bed while the werewolves are still up, first making sure that Master Derek doesn't need him to do anything else. "Goodnight, Master. Goodnight, Isaac. The next time will be easier."

Isaac answers, "Goodnight, Stiles. I hope so."

Stiles falls asleep while Isaac is howling in answer to some wolf Stiles can't hear.


	21. Birthday Cake Ice Cream

********

Stiles wakes up when Derek gets into bed. "Isaac will be in in a minute," Master Derek says, and lightly spoons Stiles.

Stiles can feel Master Derek's dick through his pajama pants. He doesn't pay it any mind—Master Derek's dick can do whatever it likes. Then Derek's dick presses hard into Stiles's ass, as far as it can get with pajamas in the way, and thrusts up, onto his tailbone. Master Derek mumbles, "Sorry." He pulls his hips back. "I did that without thinking. Don't be frightened. I'm sorry."

Stiles is not frightened. The brief, hot touch of Derek's cock on his tailbone has made his own dick rush to full hardness. "I want... I want..."

"We can't do that with Isaac in the room. He'll be here in a second."

"He won't mind," says Stiles. "And don't make him sleep alone, he'd hate that. Let's just have sex with him here in the same bed."

Master Derek hisses in his ear, "Stiles. Keep your voice down."

"He heard me already anyway. Right, Isaac?"

Isaac stands in the bedroom doorway. "Yes, I heard you, Stiles. Do you need me to do anything for you?"

"No, we don't need you," Master Derek says. "Get in here and get to sleep. You need rest."

Stiles tries to fall asleep, listening as Isaac's breathing slows. His cock keeps throbbing. Nope, this isn't going to work. He excuses himself from the Master Derek bear hug and goes to the bathroom to take care of himself. Master Derek silently resumes the bear hug when Stiles gets back. If Derek goes to have a turn, Stiles is asleep by then; he's not aware of him getting out of bed. Maybe Master Derek doesn't want it that badly.

Derek takes the next day off from work, just in case Isaac's shapeshifting and emotions get out of hand again. Isaac helps to cut up peppers and scramble eggs for a breakfast casserole. 

He offers a massage in bed for Master Derek as a return on the kindness they're showing him. "I can't do many tasks, I'm so sorry about that. But I remember how to do massage. At least, my hands and arms want to do it. I remember it without remembering it."

Master Derek grunts what must be an assent, because he makes his way to the bedroom and stares at the bed for a moment, then climbs in awkwardly, as if it's not something he does every evening. He arranges himself stiffly on his belly, on top of the covers, and crams a pillow under his chin.

Isaac asks Stiles for a bottle of lotion and stands poised above Master Derek. "It would be better with your shirt off."

"Shirt stays on. And Stiles—please stay in the room."

Isaac hands the lotion back to Stiles and kneels on the mattress next to Master Derek, graceful as Derek was awkward. He starts with both hands on the nearest shoulder. Then he reaches to do both at once, but shortly stops, gets out of bed, climbs in on the other side, and does the other shoulder. He admits, "Working from the side isn't my best angle. I'm afraid I can't do as good a job. Maybe if I were stronger. I'm sorry for any inconvenience."

"What angle do you want to use?" asks Stiles.

Isaac leans forward in a way that shows Stiles that he wants to straddle Master Derek. Isaac explains his hesitation: "But he's uncomfortable with people..."

"Yeah, yeah." Master Derek tries to see over his shoulder. "Everyone knows I'm phobic. What do you want to do?"

"I would do a better job, I think, if I could sit on your thighs."

"I'm right here," Stiles says. "And remember, Isaac is a born werewolf. That makes it better, doesn't it?"

Derek buries his mouth in his pillow and gives a muffled grunt. "Do it."

Isaac glances to Stiles, even though Master Derek gave his permission, and Stiles nods to him. Isaac straddles Derek and begins massaging again.

It's half an hour later when Master Derek goes limp. Up until this point, Isaac might as well have been kneading a clump of hard ground. Derek turns his head and snuggles his ear into the pillow he's been crushing under his chin. He kneads the pillow with his fingers, closes his eyes, and finally gives a long sigh. Isaac lets out a long breath, too. Stiles brings them each a drink of water. Isaac continues the massage for another half an hour. He slides down to straddle the backs of Master Derek's knees, and rubs the muscle above his hips, and Derek wiggles up into the touch.

Master Derek thanks Isaac for the massage, and gets out of bed. Isaac is exhausted. Stiles orders him into pajamas and bed, early. Stiles says to Isaac, "You'll be stronger than ever, once you heal completely from the poison and get used to being a werewolf."

********

So far, Isaac hasn't spent a day at home alone. Stiles has three days off a week anyway, and Derek stays home on the days Stiles goes to work. If Derek can't get away from work, Stiles takes those days off, too.

Staying at home so often is making Stiles stir-crazy. Isaac spends a lot of time looking out of the window, standing as still as if he were in a photograph. He does go outside with Stiles for little walks sometimes, but always seems relieved to get back upstairs.

Master Derek borrows Scott so that Stiles can go back to work at least one day a week. Scott brings some small board games, and talks to Isaac, or just sits with him. Scott is much more skilled than Stiles is at lazing around all day on the floor.

Master Derek writes Master Damon a thank-you note, and Stiles signs it, too: "Much obliged to you for your generosity and kindness—Stiles Stilinski." That seems fancy enough for Master Damon. Isaac also wants to sign it, and his penmanship alone is enough to make his thanks impressive.

After a short time of this arrangement, Isaac makes an announcement at supper: "I won't need Mr. Scott next time you go to work. He just takes care of me and plays games. He must have things he can do at his own house, things that matter. I could be doing tasks for you while you're gone. I promise I won't be any trouble—that is, if—if Mr. Scott will come and help me on the next full moon."

"I'll think about it," says Master Derek. He changes the subject by asking Stiles what herbs he used on the boiled new potatoes.

One day when Scott has been to Derek's apartment, Derek and Stiles get home from work at the same time, and Derek asks all three of them, "What do you boys think of going out for tacos and ice cream? You can drop Scott off after."

Isaac doesn't look like someone who's just been invited out for tacos and ice cream. He stands with his hands neatly folded, brow knit and face dark. Scott grins, though, and Stiles isn't about to turn down an outing.

Master Derek hands Stiles some cash. "Bring me a burrito. Extra onions. And a pint of birthday cake flavor ice cream."

"Yes, Master."

Isaac seems distracted when they order at the ice cream parlor. Stiles finally suggests Superman flavor for him, and Isaac agrees by gesturing toward it without saying anything, or even looking at it. He takes delicate licks of his cone, looking out the window of the parlor, but doesn't seem to notice the cars and passersby.

When they drop Scott off, Isaac faces him. "Thank you, Mr. Scott. See you next time." He still seems distracted. As soon as the car is moving again, he rubs his palms over his knees and rocks in his seat.

"What is it?" asks Stiles.

"I need to talk to you and Master Derek, but it may take some time, and I don't want to interrupt your evening."

"Of course, you can talk to us as soon as we get home," says Stiles.

"No, first he has to have his burrito and ice cream."

"After that, then."

Isaac shakes his head briefly, looking out the window, turns and gives Stiles an anxious look. Stiles suggests, "You want to wait until after the shower?"

Isaac nods.

When they get upstairs, Stiles hands Master Derek the bag in which his burrito has been keeping warm rolled in a stack of napkins, and puts the ice cream in the freezer. Master Derek eats on the couch and reads news off of his tablet, which he has balanced on his knee. Stiles watches from the kitchen archway, and when the burrito is almost gone, he scoops out some birthday cake ice cream into a dish, adds a handful of gummy bears, and presents it to Master Derek.

Derek gives a short hum for thanks and lets Stiles take his burrito wrapping to throw away.  
The entire time, Isaac is kneeling in the kitchen. Derek finally looks up and asks why he's so quiet and still.

"He has to talk to us about something, and he doesn't want to disturb anything we usually do. So you should mark me first, if that's okay."

"Whatever he wants."

Stiles's clean clothes hold the warmth from the shower against his skin. His nape is slightly damp. Isaac stands before Stiles and Derek in the living room. Master Derek says, "What did you want to talk to us about?" Isaac flicks his eyes from Stiles to Master Derek, his lips pressed tight together until Stiles gives him an encouraging nod.

"I remember why I was poisoned."

"You went all day knowing that and didn't say anything? Aw, man, Isaac. Did you say anything to Scott? Did you remember while he was here?"

Isaac shakes his head. "I only started to remember. I spent the afternoon piecing it together. I wasn't very good company for Scott."

Derek asks, "Do you want to talk about this, standing here? Should we sit down, or get in bed for this?"

Isaac glances toward the bedroom. Master Derek makes a move as if to walk in that direction, then stops and looks questioningly at Isaac. Stiles bypasses all this hesitation, grabs Master Derek's hand, nods to Isaac, and leads the way to bed. Isaac settles with his legs crossed and a pillow to hold in his lap. Master Derek leans back on the headboard and crooks one knee up, stocking foot on the bedding; his other leg is off the side of the mattress, as if he's ready to get up at any moment. Stiles kneels. The soft bedding makes him wobbly, and he props himself up against Isaac.

"You know I was living where you used to live, Stiles. What used to be Master Deucalion's compound. My owners bought me to be a chaperone for my young mistress, who would be turning sixteen—well, I wasn't there for her sweet sixteen party, but I had been supposed to be. Something went wrong before then. Went wrong with me, I mean. Anyway, I was learning defense, so I could handle it if anybody threatened her. I accompanied her on dates and at parties. Is all of this making sense so far?"

"Yep," said Stiles.

"Of course," says Master Derek.

"I didn't mean to do anything wrong. I'm almost positive I didn't hurt anyone. But what if I can't remember? I don't think I hurt anyone!"

Derek asks gently, "What happened?"

"I know I didn't hurt Mr. Mason. He told me so. I remember that much for certain. He said it wasn't my fault. He was a boy who took my young lady on regular dates. A boy she liked. I didn't hurt him. I used restraint moves—restraint only."

"Why did you do that?" Derek asks.

"I don't know. I didn't mean to do anything wrong! I knew it was Mr. Mason, and I should have known that he would never hurt her. But it felt like I had to do the restraining moves—and then—I don't remember the next part clearly, but I know I—sort of—changed—in public. My young lady was scared, and later she got angry with me. Mr. Mason wasn't hurt, but he was frightened. He said it wasn't my fault, but... that's not how my fath—how my household felt about it."

"He smelled different than usual," Master Derek suggests.

"I _think_ he smelled the same, except—the smell was stronger than I had ever noticed before. And I guess he was—tickling, teasing her." Isaac's eyes turn wolfish and his eyebrows get heavier.

"You sensed he was being aggressive to her. At least, you thought so on some level."

Isaac drops his head and covers his face with his hands. "He wasn't, though." His moan is muffled by his palms. "Mr. Mason is a nice guy."

"Was this the first anyone knew about your being a werewolf?"

"Yes," Isaac says into his hands.

Stiles gives him a minute to keep his face covered, then gives a tug at Isaac's fingers, and touches his chin to ask him to raise his head. "What happened then?"

"Nothing for a while. They stopped having me do my work, and I suppose they talked over what to do with me. I don't know how long I waited for a decision."

Stiles understands. "I hate waiting for decisions."

Isaac makes a short noise of agreement. "Well, finally they decided. My mistress didn't want me to go with her on dates anymore. Her parents wanted to be able to keep me and use me for a bodyguard. They decided to give me wolfsbane to see if they could stop the shift from happening. But it didn't work. And it made me sick. They put it in my food, and it burned going down. Then I... threw it up, and it still made me sick afterward, even though I threw it up right away. And it didn't stop the shifting. I felt like I had a fever, and I changed all the time, in different ways—claws would come out, or teeth, and I didn't know when it would happen. I—I growled at people. I got confused. Maybe I started to lose my memory then? I couldn't sleep in the slaves' rooms anymore. There's a small kitchen yard..."

"I remember it," says Stiles.

"They said I should sleep out there, and see if things got better, while they worked out what to do next."

"They needed to bring you a doctor," says Derek, tightly furious.

Isaac sounds apologetic. "I never saw a doctor. I stayed sick. Then they tried injecting the wolfsbane, instead of putting it in my food. That hurt. It still didn't stop me from shapeshifting. And this is one thing I'm not clear on, but I think I may have forgotten, and not recognized somebody I should know. Like somebody in our house came into the yard with me, I didn't know them, and I should have. Another day must have gone by, I think, with me alone in the kitchen yard. The kitchen slaves were too afraid of me to come out and do any tasks they needed to do there. And I remember my—one of the other slaves telling me to come out of the yard, he promised me no more wolfsbane. They made me shower by myself, to take off any leftover marking scent I might have had left from before—from before I shifted. Then they had me get into a truck."

"I sometimes accuse Peter of exaggerating, overreacting. Good God, this is outrageous. I'm with Peter. I'd like to kill them myself. I've been—I was wolfsbane poisoned, and carried—taken off in a truck, I know what it's like."

Isaac doesn't look up; he keeps his head supported on one hand, but he reaches out with his other hand until he finds Master Derek's knee, pats it and gives a squeeze. "I'm sorry."

"Why is everyone always sorry for me? You should be sorry for yourself."

Isaac keeps his hand on Master Derek's knee. "I have to admit that I'm not sorry for myself; I'm grateful to you for taking me off the street. But I do have a favor to ask of you, if that's not too bold."

"Of course, you may ask me a favor."

"May I wait to talk about this to Peter?"

"You can wait as long as you need to," says Derek.

"Thank you." Isaac withdraws his hand and clutches his pillow. Stiles nudges him to show support. Isaac stares in apparent frustration at the dresser across from the foot of the bed. He finally speaks again: "Master Derek, may I tell only Stiles something?"

"I don't know. Are you holding Stiles to a secret?"

"Not if he thinks it's a bad secret," says Isaac.

"Okay, then, it's all right with me, if it's all right with him."

Stiles doesn't want to kick Master Derek out of his own bedroom, so he and Isaac talk quietly, standing in the plant room. Isaac doesn't want to sit on the bed, and the way he curls and kneads his fingertips together reminds Stiles of his own anxious habits.

"You know my father is a slave. We lived in the same household."

"You should ask Master Derek if he can bring your father to meet with you, somehow."

Isaac's tangle of fingers gets tighter. "No. I don't—I don't think... I don't know if my father would come to see me. He came up with the wolfsbane idea."

Stiles's breath is taken away. He snatches it back by reasoning, "He was trying to help you."

"He was trying to help himself. Anyhow, it's not all of this that worries me. It's Uncle—I mean, Master Peter. He wants to know everything, and I'll have to tell him that the wolfsbane poisoning was my dad's idea. If I don't ask for mercy for my dad, the Hales will kill him. They might kill him anyway. They don't have to listen to me beg."

"Of course they'll save him, if you ask. Tell them what your father means to you."

"But is it all right for me to ask? Master Peter wants revenge on my old owners, because he sold me to them. When he finds out what happened, he's going to want revenge on my dad, too. If I ask for mercy, he might grant it. Won't that make Master Peter's revenge look... incomplete? Won't it look bad? Because other people will know my dad was involved, and they'll probably find out if Peter spares him."

"That's his decision to make," says Stiles. "His and the rest of the pack's. You leave that to them. If you want Uncle Peter to spare your dad's life, ask. Leave the rest of it up to the Hales."

********

Stiles and Isaac are playing Chinese checkers on the living room floor. Master Derek sits on the loveseat, at Stiles's back.

Master Derek lightly drops his hand on Stiles's shoulder. "Stiles. You've been... touching yourself a lot. When I'm not around."

"I'm sorry. I'll cut down. Um. Somehow. I'll figure out something." Stiles chews his lip.

"You don't have to stop. Or... reduce. I'm making an observation."

"Yes?"

"Yeah. That you've been... active."

"I know."

Derek huffs.

"Am I missing something that you want from me?"

"I'd like to be involved, sometime."

"With... involved with me?"

Derek presses Stiles's shoulder and makes a short, gruff noise.

"Well, we can do that anytime!"

"I've had... something in mind. Isaac, will you be all right without me or Stiles for half an hour?"

"Do I have to go in my room?"

"No. You have the run of the apartment. Is it okay if we lock the master bathroom door?"

"It's fine with me. I'll be fine."

Stiles tells Isaac, "We can pick this up, later, or we can say you win because I left the game."

"We'd better continue later, so you have a chance to win, sir."

"Yeah, of course, okay."

Master Derek gets their robes, and takes Stiles into the bathroom with him. "This is only if you want to. Let's get into the shower together and if you still want to then, we could... you could... I could..."

"You're not talking about marking, right?"

"Right." Master Derek wads his robe in his hands and seems unable to speak further, so Stiles tries to help him, but he can't figure out what it is Master Derek wants to do. Stiles hopes it involves his touching Master Derek in some way. Stiles undresses and steps into the shower, and Derek follows him. Stiles adjusts the spray; Derek takes a deep breath and says, all in a rush: "Do you want to touch yourself while I watch?"

Stiles blurts out, "Can I touch you during?"

Master Derek looks spooked. "Touch me how?" 

"On your arm?"

"Y—yes."

Stiles is excited enough to come almost instantly if he touches himself. He tries to steady himself and hold off. He decides to shampoo his hair first, and asks if that's okay.

"Yes, go ahead." Derek seems relieved. "Let's shower normally first."

He lets Stiles soap up his back for him. Stiles gets mesmerized swirling the soap around on Derek's shoulders, one hand on each shoulder.

Master Derek turns around and shampoos Stiles, rinses his hair, gives him a kiss on the forehead.

"Can I—should I touch myself now?"

Master Derek pauses. "Yes, do it now."

Stiles clutches Master Derek's arm and nuzzles down into the bend of his elbow, kissing it with water running under and around his mouth. He strokes himself four times, grunts and sucks in a loud breath, and comes. He grits his teeth against his whines, his hips jerk, and he has to hold tighter to Master Derek's arm. Derek strokes the side of Stiles's neck, nuzzles his cheek, pets his back, and holds onto him. "You're so beautiful. You have perfect shoulders."

Derek takes his hand from Stiles's back and touches his own erection. Stiles gasps. "Do you want to? When you said—when you suggested this, you said just me, and now we're touching each other a lot..."

"Yes, I want... I want to..." Master Derek is stroking himself, eyes closed. "I want you to touch me."

Stiles's breathing grows heavy, through his nose. He plays his fingers over Master Derek's shoulders, but Derek says, "No, you can touch my—I mean if you want to..."

This is way more contact than Stiles expected. He's unsure that Derek actually knows what he wants. Before they got in the shower, he was balking at the idea of Stiles touching him at all without clothes on. But Stiles really, really wants to touch Master Derek, and he says he wants it. "What do you want me to do?"

Derek takes Stiles's left hand and places it on his hot, firm cock. Stiles's long, shuddering sigh is almost the same as Derek's. Stiles starts stroking him instinctively. He clutches at Derek's chest with his other hand, and Derek groans. Stiles's grip isn't very effective at this angle. He sidles around behind, stretches his arms around Derek's waist and touches him with both hands. Derek makes sounds that seem to mean he likes it so far, but then he puts a hand on one of Stiles's arms and says, "No."

Stiles takes his hands away, and Derek goes on: "I want to come on you."

Stiles is frozen in place by how much he approves of this idea.

"Is that okay?"

Stiles nods, then finds words, though his voice is hoarse. "Yes, tell me where you want me."

Derek braces himself with one hand against the shower wall and clumsily grabs Stiles with his other hand. "Around in front."

"Oh, yeah, obviously, in front," Stiles scrambles around. "Facing you, or..."

Master Derek grabs Stiles's lower back and tucks his chin over Stiles's shoulder. There's no room for Stiles to touch Master Derek's cock. Derek is grinding into the groove of Stiles's hip. His cock is hotter than the rest of his body. Stiles squirms just enough to get his own soft dick un-pinched, then enjoys feeling so much of Master Derek against him. Derek makes tiny, effortful sounds, his hand splayed over Stiles's tailbone, sending ticklish sensations through Stiles's groin and down his thighs. Stiles isn't quite getting hard again, but it's exciting.

Master Derek asks, "Touch my face." Stiles works an arm free and strokes his rough stubble. Derek's sounds get faster and louder, he holds Stiles tighter. His noises sound anxious, and Stiles makes a soothing sound.

Master Derek comes all over the right side of Stiles's belly and hip. He rakes his fingers over Stiles's tailbone and pushes his chin harder into Stiles's shoulder. He sobs, he quivers, and after a few minutes he turns to nose Stiles's neck and wraps him in a hug. Stiles wants to make sure Master Derek knows he came on him, the way he wanted to. "Derek," he murmurs into his neck, "Master, if you ease up just a little, I can show you how it looks. Don't let it rinse away before you get to see it, okay?"

Master Derek keeps Stiles in his arms and pulls back just enough to look down. After a long moment he raises his head, and he should be looking into Stiles's face, but his eyes are blank. Derek shudders, looks at Stiles's belly again, and shields him from the shower spray. He runs a hand through the come, spreading it over Stiles's hipbone. Then Derek gives Stiles fierce eye contact.

Stiles pats his shoulder, then his face. "Master."

Derek takes Stiles's hands away from himself. His jaw works and his upper lip twitches. "I took advantage of you."

"No. Master Derek, do not do this right now. Please do not do this. You wanted this, remember? You're okay. You didn't take advantage of me."

Derek grunts. Stiles goes on quickly, "Do not do this right now. Look at me, don't look away. Look at me."

Master Derek makes fists and rubs his thumbs in and out among his fingers.

"Let's get out of the shower." Stiles has to take his eyes off of Master Derek's face to turn off the shower, and when he reaches for a towel, Derek flees the bathroom without even drying off.


	22. Uncle Peter's Bedtime Stories

********

Stiles decides the drama does not call for leaving the bathroom naked and wet. He dries carefully, puts on a robe, and tries to be nothing but calm and in-control. But part of him is unsteady and hurt.

Master Derek is curled up on top of the blankets, wet and naked. Isaac has thought to get a towel from the linen closet, and rubs it vigorously all over Derek's tight shoulders. Derek doesn't even tell him to stop, which is not a good sign. 

Stiles sits next to them and strokes Derek's upper leg. "Master, no panicking allowed. We're going to be totally normal and happy this evening, all right?"

To his surprise, Master Derek nods stiffly in response.

"Okay, what can I do to help you, Master?"

"I'm never getting out of this bed again," Master Derek says hoarsely, which is not informative.

"You're not even really _in_ the bed. Get in the covers."

"No."

Isaac, when he hears that the master is never again leaving his bed, heads for the kitchen, to make bed-friendly snacks. Stiles calls him back. "Isaac, I need to move an entire werewolf."

It's an easy matter for Isaac to move Master Derek enough for Stiles to slide the covers out from under him, and they situate him again. All this with nothing but resistance from Derek, who has his arms folded in a tight cross over his chest. Stiles gets in under the covers opposite Derek and tries to unwind his arms, but they're in place as if Derek were carved this way, all in one piece. "Stop doing things," says Master Derek.

"Did you know that sometimes people have to be disobedient, just so they can do the right thing?"

"Yes," says Master Derek. He sobs, sounding like something ripping or breaking. 

Stiles says shakily, "Isaac, I need my phone."

He brings it to him so quickly that Stiles knows Isaac must have been bringing his clothes to the bed for him already.

"Do not call my mother," Derek sounds outraged, snotted up and miserable.

"I know better than that, and I'm irritated with you for thinking I don't know better. I'm calling Peter."

"Oh. That's okay."

"I know it is. I know what to do, even if you don't." 

Uncle Peter answers right away. "What is it, puppy?"

"Master Derek needs you."

Derek is sniffling behind his hand.

"Tell him he doesn't have to talk to me," says Peter.

At the same time, Derek is saying brokenly, "I can't even talk to him."

"You don't have to," says Stiles. "Uncle Peter will talk to _you_."

"Yes," says Peter. "It usually helps. You might not want to listen, though, Stiles. My cures for panic attacks are fairly graphic."

"I don't know what you mean by that," says Stiles. "I can listen anyway."

"Graphic descriptions of violence," explains Uncle Peter.

"I've seen people killed by wolves," says Stiles.

"Hm. Well, put the phone down kind of near Derek, then."

Isaac stations himself near the doorway, hands folded before himself.

Stiles places the phone on the bedding between himself and Master Derek. Uncle Peter's voice drops into a soothing storytelling tone:

"The first person who helped you was the one who told me where Kate had taken you. I agreed not to reveal who tipped me off, which is why I will never tell you who it is. He values peace between werewolves and hunters, and he gave me this information at great personal sacrifice to himself.

"I went to the house and circled it from a distance. I could tell by scent that you were inside. There was no mistake. I could smell that other people had been there, but you and Kate were the only ones there now.

"My driver broke the ash line for me. I crossed, and she reattached it. I sent her to hide the car close by, and to come back on foot and watch the front door. If Kate left, Tanya was to break the ash line again. If I came out the front door, she was to get the car and pull up in front.

"The front and back doors were locked. If I made a noise breaking in, Kate would surely be ready for me and kill me. After she killed me, she would move you, and she might not show you to my informant again. I waited for her to leave the house.

"I was prepared to wait all day and night, if need be. I had no concerns about my ability to wait... until I heard you moaning inside the house. Then I knew there was a time limit to how long I would be able to control myself. If I gave in to rage and broke while Kate was there, she would hear me coming. I told myself you had lived there—that she had kept you alive in there—for long enough that today wouldn't be the day she would kill you, if ever. But this only made it worse, thinking of how long you had been held captive. So, I adopted a Zen attitude about it, in this manner: 'I am not here to get my nephew out of the house. I am here to kill Kate Argent, and I can wait as long as it takes.' That calmed me.

"I had no real intention of killing Kate that day. We would hunt her down as a pack once you were safe. 'I am here to kill Kate Argent' was only a mantra, a way to keep me from going in after you too soon.

"Thankfully, I only had to wait about two hours. I heard her laugh, and a minute later, she said, 'I have to run to the hardware store and the post office.' She said that a package she'd ordered for you had arrived. Then she said the package was really for both of you, or mostly for her.

"The minutes between when she announced that she was leaving, and when she got into her truck, were the hardest minutes for keeping myself from charging in too soon.

"My informant had detailed for me the werewolf traps Kate would always set when she locked up. She had traps on all of the doors and windows. I applied my sharpened predatory mind to the problem and determined that Kate was unlikely to return from the post office and enter her house via the second floor windows. She would not see that I had disabled the traps there until I had an ample head start with you.

"You were alert enough to know when Kate left. As soon as I landed on the roof, I heard you, down on the first floor, calling for help. I thought at the time that you heard me land and knew someone was there. Later, I found that you couldn't hear me, and you were certainly too poisoned to smell anything. You called for help every time Kate left you, in case someone might finally hear you.

"The first floor was dark; every window was blacked out. The smell... the scent of you, tortured, took all of my attention and I had to get control. I was as prepared as I could be, to see you hanging by your arms from a chain link fence.

"I had been informed that I needed to shut off a trap that would shock me if I tried to remove your wrist restraints. There were weapons, boxes, tables, tools, all manner of things cluttering the entire room. I finally found the power box for the fence on the wall, and was about to break the lock on the cover, when I saw a wire attached to the lock: it was an alarm. The wire led me a tangled chase through the clutter, to a tall crate covered in knobs and connectors of all kinds, with wires draining down through holes drilled in the top. There had to be a battery inside the crate, but it did me no good to guess that, because the crate was made of mountain ash. I could have asked Tanya to come in the house and break into the crate for me with any of the jumble of tools lying around. I argued with myself over it for what felt like much too long. Risking Tanya before I even had you was a stupid plan. I yanked on the wire I was fairly certain was responsible for the electrical box on the wall. I had either shut off the alarm, or alerted Kate. I broke the cover lock on the wall box and shut off the fence. And then, then I could free you.

"You protested the rescue. No matter what I said or did, you couldn't recognize me.

"I carried you. You fought me, but you were too weak to do much, and weighed less than you should have. You called for help, I tried to tell you I was there to help you, but you couldn't understand me. I had you on the second floor and halfway to the back window where I had broken in, when I heard Kate's truck coming back.

"I could have snuck up on her, outside, but that would have meant leaving you inside, alone. She couldn't be allowed to know I was there—that is, if she didn't know already. I didn't know whether I had alerted her with the alarm.

"I knew Kate must have been used to hearing you call for help, but if she heard you on the second floor, we would have problems. So I had to carry you back to that torture room. And Kate would know you were so weak that you couldn't possibly have gotten yourself off of the fence."

"You had to put me back," says Master Derek. Stiles startles at the sound of his voice.

"I hung you back up.

"Kate entered the room normally. Either the alarm had not gone off, or she was acting nonchalant to fool the intruder. There was plenty of cover in the boxes and crates and odds-and-ends tables. I listened to Kate, and focused on how I despised everything about her, down to her fingernails and nostrils. She had turned on only two lightbulbs. I could see perfectly, while she was moving easily about the room only because she was so familiar with it. This satisfied me that I had not set off any alarms. I moved in a crouch to the next box I could hide behind, closer to her.

"She thunked some objects onto a table, and something metallic clattered when she tossed it down. She said, 'I brought you an extra present, bet you didn't expect that, right, hon? Besides the special package. Something I got on the spur of the moment at the hardware store.'

"I could tell from her voice which direction she was facing. She wouldn't see me if I kept slightly back. I moved in between two crates and watched her from the side, a few feet away. I saw and heard the moment she took a sniff—my cologne had given me away. I stood up.

"She must have had weapons in that room, within arm's reach, that she could have thrown at me to slow me down, but she picked up a dagger and faced me. I took one long step to reach her and drove my claws into the muscle under her ear. I pushed against her chest with my other hand, to create a counterforce so I wouldn't merely spin her around with my claws in the side of her neck. Kate easily gave me a deep cut on my exposed wrist. She aimed under my chin with her dagger, I twisted my neck out of the way, and she slashed my chest. She pulled back and got in a hard strike to my hipbone—a lucky miss for me, she wanted my gut. That was all the fighting we had time for. I completed my one move.

"My dagger wounds were poisoned. By the time I could feel the poison working, Kate was losing all her blood on the floor.

"Her blood almost overwhelmed the smells of you having been held there for so long. I had to make sure, before I could turn my back on her. It hurt to make you wait, but I was driven to tear her to pieces. I crouched, and clawed her across the face. I got down on my hands and knees and pulled at her head with my teeth. It didn't come all the way off, but finally I had to admit to myself that she was gone.

"I sprung the trap on the front door from the inside, and carried you out. We collapsed on the porch, and I'm afraid that when I dropped you as I fell, I gave you a nasty bump on the head. My car arrived as ordered. We were safe. We're still safe."

Master Derek asks, "Tell what Kate felt like when she was dying."

"Of course. Listen carefully: Kate didn't sense anything amiss when she came back to the house. As soon as she knew I was there, she fought for her life, but she made a bad mistake. She tried to kill me, instead of wound me and run. She grabbed that poisoned dagger and faced off with me. Then she saw that I wasn't just any werewolf, but your crazy uncle.

"She was aware of the tug on her flesh when I sank my claws into her neck. She had the time it takes to blink, to experience regret. In the same moment that she was stabbing me, Kate was sorry she had kidnapped Derek Hale. I yanked her throat out, and she lost consciousness in less than five seconds. Her head stayed on—barely—her spinal cord was still attached to her brain, and her heart pumped until there was no more blood. Her legs kicked, kicked, kicked, but she was already senseless. She never had another thought. She can never think about you again."

Derek says quietly, "Thank you."

"Anytime. Everyone else was looking for you, too," Uncle Peter reminds him. "If your mother had found you, it would have happened the way it did with me. And if your father had found you first, then there would probably not have been a body left when he got done with Kate. I did leave a body. Want me to tell again what condition the body was in?"

"Yes, please," says Derek. So Peter tells him again.

Isaac brings snacks to the bedroom. When Uncle Peter says goodnight, Isaac sits on the bed, and Stiles asks him, "You're not afraid of Peter, are you? You know he won't hurt us, right?"

"I know," Isaac answers. "Peter's not a mean man. He was just angry."

"I would be that angry, too, in his place," says Stiles.

"I'm glad Master Derek is okay now."

"Me, too."

Master Derek's breathing is hoarse, but his muscles aren't as hard, and his expression is softer. He won't eat snacks until Stiles says he's waiting for him to start first. Isaac says, "I am, too."

"Waiting on you," Stiles prompts Master Derek again. He has to eat so his boys will eat. Then he sits up in bed and starts crying again. Stiles asks, "Would it help at all if we hugged you?" Derek surprises him by nodding. Isaac and Stiles latch on and cuddle. Stiles tries to pet as much of Master Derek as he can, though Derek is a muscly ball of stubborn werewolf, so it's difficult to get much coverage.

"I'm embarrassed—I can't stop crying," Master Derek manages to say.

"Poor guy," says Isaac, patting him, and Stiles feels a wash of affection for Isaac.

"Everyone here has had at least one night like this," Stiles reminds Master Derek.

Gradually his sobbing quiets, and they wash his face for him. Then he sits there, frowning.

"I'm sorry for what she did to you," Stiles says, not in a sympathetic tone, more like he'd go take care of Kate now if Peter hadn't done it years ago. "I'm sorry. You're a big, gorgeous guy and she did a terrible awful thing and—"

"And ruined me," says Master Derek, as if he's agreeing with Stiles.

"No! She had no right to do that to you, but she couldn't ruin you. Obviously you're not ruined. You're upset, but that's about the most she could do, is upset you. She's horrible, and you're awesome."

"But it was—but I was—but I ruined your night. I suggested something that I wasn't ready for, and I—I totally blew it."

"That is why I won't stop doing things. You are going to cuddle me after my first time, and that was my first time. You are going to do things like look me in the eye and tell me more of that stuff about how I'm beautiful. I want a good first time."

"Well, I'm sorry I ruined it. I'm so sorry. So sorry."

"Master Derek! It was amazing. No panic attacks allowed. Not until next time or something. Not tonight."

"Too late. I panicked. Still panicking."

"Well, no more panic attacks allowed, then, after this one. Not for a couple of days. I'm sorry you're so scared, but you have to follow through on this. You have to cuddle me."

"I'm trying to work up to cuddling you, but my body won't move to do it."

"I'll cuddle Stiles," says Isaac helpfully. "I'll make you jealous."

Master Derek's mouth twitches up a little at that. Stiles sees no downside in this plan. Isaac scooches until his hip is against Stiles's, then runs his fingers over Stiles's head until Master Derek's hand pushes Isaac's aside and takes over. Isaac puts his hands in his own lap and nuzzles his cheek on Stiles's shoulder.

Stiles says to Isaac, "Uncle Peter picked you out for Master Derek. I would have, too."

********

"You conducted yourself well last night, Isaac," Master Derek says at breakfast. "I think Stiles may be able to go back to work on his regular schedule. Are there any classes you'd like to take, or work you'd like to do, so you don't have to spend too much time alone here?"

"Anything you want me to do, sir."

"You've had some bodyguard classes. You enjoyed that, didn't you? Would you like more training in that line?"

Isaac's eyes flash briefly. There's a short, low growl in his throat under the word when he answers, "Yes."

Master Derek's not kidding when he says werewolves don't get marked. He doesn't even rub his hands over Isaac when they're all in bed together, and he doesn't check him for scent before Isaac leaves the apartment. The morning they take Isaac to his first class, Stiles gets him alone and murmurs, "I'm going to give you a Derek shirt to wear when you get home."

"Really?"

"Yes. Remember that when you walk in there with those strangers."

"Yes, Stiles. Thank you, sir."

Master Derek and Stiles have work to go to, but Derek is going to arrive late, and he got the same permission for Stiles, so they can settle Isaac in at class first.

"Here we are," says the driver. He steps out and holds Isaac's door open for him. Isaac glances at the driver and thanks him, but doesn't move, and keeps his hands folded in his lap. He's more than usually pale.

Master Derek is looking at the tall, wide windows on the street side of the school building. Lots of humans and a few werewolves are moving around inside the school and on the sidewalk. "I won't be able to go in there. I'm sorry, Isaac. I know you're afraid."

Master Derek has said that the school comes recommended, but that he hasn't seen even the outside of it before today, nor spoken to any of the instructors. Stiles hitches forward in his seat, and Master Derek says, "Stiles, go in with him and see that the place is all right."

The boys climb out of the car, and Isaac tugs at the collar of his own shirt. "Promise."

"Yes," answers Stiles.

The training room is an open space with exercise mats on the floor. The trainees are clean, and the instructors are soft-spoken. Isaac explains to Stiles that there will be scary things happening sometimes, as that's part of the training.

"Do you feel safe here?"

"I'll be fine."

Stiles knows better than that. He watches the first part of the class, so that Isaac can glance at him whenever he needs to.

When Isaac takes longer than usual to turn around and look for Stiles, and tilts his head to motion Stiles toward the exit, Stiles goes back out to Master Derek. The driver opens the door for Stiles and remains standing outside.

"How is it?" asks Derek. "Did I make a good choice?"

"Isaac recognized everything, he's used to schools like this. I didn't come back out right away because he's worried about bothering us, and wants us to go ahead to work, so he said he'd be fine alone, but I stayed to watch for a little while."

Master Derek grips Stiles's hand. "Thanks for taking good care of him."

Stiles admits, "I promised him one of your shirts for after class."

Master Derek gives him a sharp look, but doesn't answer aloud, as if perhaps he may not have heard, or not have absorbed Stiles's meaning. He takes a deep whiff of the curve of Stiles's neck and shoulder, snuffles through his hair, leans back slightly and takes a deep breath over his head. "You smell like all those strangers." He lets go of Stiles's hand and scrubs his wrist over Stiles's neck, hair, and hands.

Stiles tips his head back and relaxes. Master Derek's rubbing on his hands gives him a tickling feeling of wanting to do something; he feels it lower down. "Isaac is going to smell a lot more like all those strangers than I do, when he comes home."

"He can wash it off in the shower," Master Derek says in a rough, offhanded tone. He nips Stiles's ear.

Stiles lets out a groan. "Won't you still smell it?"

"Let me handle it. That's my problem, not yours, slave." Derek's tone sounds teasing, and he's licking Stiles's neck. Stiles quivers all the way down his thighs. Derek kisses him on the mouth, and nips his upper lip. Stiles moans and squirms, then tries licking in between Master Derek's lips. Derek sucks on his lips and tongue, and Stiles breathes hard.

Derek grips Stiles's shirt in a fist and barely pulls back from the kiss. Their lower lips are touching, and his voice is ragged when he says, "I should have taken the whole day off today, and kept you with me. I wish I had you under me in bed right now."

Stiles is immediately, completely hard, and tilts his hips up once, instinctively trying to find out whether any part of Master Derek is near enough to press against. Derek kisses down the front of Stiles's throat. He lets go of Stiles's shirt, licks his own lips, smooths his hair, and gazes into Stiles's eyes for only a moment. Then he turns away and taps on the window for the driver.

********


	23. Broke to Consent

********

Isaac is sitting at the kitchen table, playing with a peg solitaire board that Scott gave him.

Master Derek marks Stiles in the shower, and while he's rinsing him, he tickles Stiles's tailbone with barely more than the pressure of the shower water. Stiles gives a small _huh_ sound. Derek bends to murmur near Stiles's ear, his chin on Stiles's shoulder, "I wonder whether Isaac would really mind sleeping in his own room tonight."

"Of course he would mind, Master. It's not even really his own room, it's the plant room."

"It was a slave's room first. It's a slave's room if I say it's a slave's room."

"Why would he need to sleep by himself tonight?"

"I want..." Master Derek licks Stiles's shoulder. "It would be unfair to him... to make him put up with sleeping in the same room with us while I—while we—do... things."

"He's afraid and lonely by himself and you have to let him sleep with us. I mean, if I can share my opinion, Master."

"But I don't have to let him be in there while we're doing those things."

"You don't want him there?"

"I don't want him to have to be there. For his sake."

"But it's not for his sake!" Stiles barely remembers to keep his voice low. "He won't mind."

"He doesn't know whether he would or wouldn't mind. He doesn't know what he wants."

Stiles's voice rises sharply. "That again? Well, Isaac's not human anymore, he's a werewolf, so you have to take his feelings seriously."

"Stiles..." Master Derek touches Stiles's upper lip. "Shh. Stiles. I know you want it. And I am taking Isaac's feelings into account." He keeps his finger on Stiles's mouth while he gestures with his other hand in the spray of the shower and searches for words. "Isaac will feel obligated to say yes or no based on what he thinks I want. It wouldn't be fair to him to kick him out of bed and then have intimacy with each other. And if we do it with him there, it'll make him uncomfortable." Derek de-shushes Stiles and holds his hands out to the sides, palms up.

Stiles considers. "We could go to bed early, right now, while Isaac is still up, and do what you want... if you... if you really know what you want, Master."

"I know what I want!" Master Derek makes a fist and seems intent on pounding it against the shower wall, but he only makes a slow and defeated motion, so his fist just lands there, and he bows his head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. We're not doing anything now. You can get out and dry off. I'm going to stay in here a little longer."

"Yes, Master."

********

Isaac sits next to Stiles on the couch and sends him texts: "There's one reason I haven't asked to talk to Peter yet.  
"I remember what he wants to know.  
"I could tell him now but...  
"I'm trying to decide whether to ask for a chance to see my dad  
"If the Hales can manage it."

"Im sure theyll do what they can!!"

Isaac gives a long sigh, and texts, "I'm not sure whether my dad will want to see me.  
"If I ask to see him, and the Hales allow it and  
"If he refuses....."

Stiles imagines his own dad refusing to see him. He speaks. "Would it be worse than never seeing him again?"

"I don't know. I can't decide."

"You know, you don't have to make this decision. You could ask Master Derek or Uncle Peter to decide for you."

Isaac nods.

As soon as Master Derek has a free moment and isn't actively frowning, Isaac tells him that he's ready to talk to Peter. Uncle Peter is invited to Derek's apartment, and Stiles cooks dinner.

Master Derek says there is to be no talking about revenge at the supper table, so Uncle Peter waits until after dinner to ask Isaac to give him the whole story. Master Derek stays close by to make sure that Peter doesn't intimidate Isaac.

"It was my father's idea to use the wolfsbane on me, to control my shifting."

"Your father is a slave. He's not solely responsible for the final decision to use wolfsbane on you. And I know, from dealing with Laheys, some of them are mean, and some of them are the sweetest creatures you'd ever care to meet. Your father is a mean one. I accept that. Which kind do you think you are?"

Isaac winces. "Do you want me to say what I think, out loud?"

Uncle Peter touches Isaac between the shoulder blades. "You don't need to. I won't tease. You're one of the good ones."

Without Isaac asking, Peter offers, "Do you want me to get your father and bring him where you can see him?"

"I've thought about that. And I talked with Stiles. I decided not to ask you if I could see my dad. I don't want to know if he doesn't want to see me. But could you not kill him, please?"

"Since you asked so nicely, I won't kill your father."

Isaac keeps his head bowed, his hands folded. "Thank you, Master Peter."

"Thank _you_ , Isaac. This has been a very illuminating evening."

When Uncle Peter has gone home, Isaac confides in Stiles. "If they show the other slaves leniency, too, then maybe nobody will know the difference. But what if they kill the slaves—except for my father? Then everyone will guess that the Hales spared him because of me. And then what's worse, they'll figure out that if my father was spared, then—then this whole revenge might have been taken because of me. Word gets around. People are afraid of the Hales. Nobody will ever want to keep me. I'll never get a place again."

"I get that you're worried about what people will think. But it doesn't matter. You have the last place you'll ever need."

Isaac shakes his head in an irritated, hopeless way, as if Stiles's answer is irrelevant.

Isaac showers alone and goes to bed, with Stiles's tablet, to play a haunted house point and click game.

Stiles and Master Derek shower together. Master Derek extends one claw and draws it lightly up over Stiles's hip to just under his rib cage.

When they come out, Isaac is in the middle of the bed, under the covers. He subtly sniffs the air, ends his game, and shuffles to one side. Master Derek says, "No, don't get up. You look comfortable. Why don't you take a turn in the middle? If you want to, that is."

Isaac rolls right back into the middle and holds the blanket open for Stiles. He tucks it around Stiles's shoulder, and they smile at each other. Master Derek switches off the bedside lamp and lies with his back against Isaac's.

Isaac brings a hand out from under the blanket and touches the scars on Stiles's brow and cheek. "This was an accident?"

"Yes. I know it looks like claw marks."

"Kind of."

"It was a bad gate. That and my clumsiness."

"You look good, though."

Stiles's smile widens, and a short, embarrassed chuckle escapes him. "Thanks."

Stiles has some lingering arousal from Derek's touch in the shower. He's used to letting it alone when he's tired. He knows he can go touch himself any time he really has to, which makes him feel safer and less needy.

He's half-asleep, and Derek is breathing slowly, when Isaac says, "Pardon me, sir. Excuse me, please. Sorry." He climbs over Stiles's hip and goes through the door to the living room. He usually uses the master bathroom, but maybe he's gone to use the slave's bathroom for some reason.

Master Derek closes the gap between himself and Stiles, tucks his chin at Stiles's nape, and touches Stiles's ankle with his toes. Stiles sighs in pleasure. Long minutes pass and Isaac hasn't returned, so Stiles has to extricate himself. "He didn't go to the plant room to sleep, did he?"

"No, I hear him in the kitchen."

Stiles pads out there. Isaac sits in a kitchen chair, nodding. His head jerks up when Stiles passes through the archway, then he droops forward again.

Stiles digs some sliced French bread out of the freezer and turns on the broiler. Isaac rubs the corners of his eyes. Stiles tells him, "Don't get up, I'm fixing a snack." He arranges the bread on a pan to defrost, and sits down, elbows on the table and chin in hands. "Do you want to talk about what's wrong, that you don't want to come back to bed?"

Isaac places his hands on the table and stares at his extended claws.

"Are you worried about wolfing out? Did your claws get away on you?"

Isaac shakes his head. "I didn't plan on the claws... I think they happened just now. I need to work on my control—my awareness. But that's not why I came out to the kitchen. You and Master Derek... you keep inviting me into the room with you. Tonight you even let me sleep in the middle. I don't want to interrupt. I mean, I don't want to... intrude. On the two of you. Doing intimate things. I know I should sleep in the plant room."

"No, of course you don't have to do that. Are you worried because Master Derek can't hold onto me if you're in the middle? That's not really an intimacy thing. You'll find out pretty quick, if you're the one trying to sleep next to me, you need to hold me down or you'll never get any sleep."

"It's not that. It's that I know you both want it. Want each other. I can smell that, I can see that, and you aren't doing it. It's because of me. Master Derek doesn't want to do it with me there. If I get out of the way... but I don't really know how. Master Derek invites me in, and you're so nice, not to make me sleep alone. What should I do?"

"Don't worry about it. That's what you should do: not worry. Act normal, and come back to bed—after I make us some cheese toast. It's really better for you to sleep with us, everyone knows that. Master Derek is just using you as an excuse." Out of consideration for Master Derek, who probably heard him from the bedroom, Stiles amends: "I mean, about using you as an excuse, Master Derek is really nervous about going all the way with me, so he says he can't with you there."

"He doesn't want me there while you have sex. That's what he's said."

Stiles throws the bread under the broiler for a couple of minutes before adding cheese. "He keeps saying to me, when you're not around and we get started flirting, that you won't be comfortable. He tells me it's not fair to you, to make you be in the same bed with us while we make out."

Master Derek appears in the archway. Isaac jumps up, pulls out a chair for him, and stands ready. Derek waves him back into his seat. He sits in the chair Isaac offered him, and extends his claws, matching Isaac's.

Isaac clears his throat. "Master Derek, may I ask a question?"

"Yeah."

"It's because of me, not you, that you don't want me in the room while you make love?"

"It's for your sake, yes," Master Derek says gruffly.

"But you don't need to worry for my sake, sir. I thought you wanted me gone for your privacy."

Master Derek grunts and shrugs one shoulder.

Isaac's tone is careful. "Sir, do you know what 'broke to consent' means?"

"It's just a fancy slave-seller way of saying you'll let your master have his way with you."

Isaac looks uncomfortable. Stiles prompts him: "It's okay. You can correct Master Derek."

Isaac gives it a moment's more thought, then says, "Any good slave can let you have your way with him. I can consent. I had training as a bodyguard for a young gentleman or lady, for social situations. I learned about consent, how to recognize it when my master or mistress gave it to someone, on dates or at parties. Later on, in sexual companion training, before we began on any other skills, I learned what authority is, and about how it affects a slave's brain. I learned what consent feels like in myself, how to give it, and how to deny it. My teachers were glad to get me in sex companion training, because I'd already been started in social bodyguard. They said consent is one of the hardest things to teach, and I'd had a foundation.

"I am fully capable of consenting to sleep in the same bed as you while you and Stiles are engaging in physical and emotional intimacy. A lot of people want a really consenting partner. Romance is popular. I could have been very valuable, if I hadn't turned into a werewolf."

Derek stares at him. " _Could_ have been valuable!" He reaches toward Isaac, but withdraws his hand. Isaac glances up at him, then looks back at his own hands folded respectfully in his lap, as neatly as they can be with the claws pointing everywhere.

Derek asks, "But... you're sure that you're capable of withdrawing consent once you've given it? Even for the same activity you gave consent for?"

"Yes. It would not be consent if I couldn't withdraw it."

"What if Stiles and I are already being intimate, you're next to us in the bed, and we're in the middle of something, you'd really interrupt us if you weren't comfortable anymore?"

"Yes. May I speak freely?"

"Always."

"I want to be in bed with you. Really. I'm not going to say no, but it's not because I don't know how to say no."

Master Derek stands. He holds onto the back of his chair and frowns at the floor. His lips are pressed together as if he's working up to saying something. Then he seems to come awake, and reaches out a hand toward Isaac; Isaac reaches back and Master Derek presses his hand. "All right," says Derek. "Okay. Both of you please come to bed with me."

Stiles wants to fling himself back into bed, but: "Would you like cheese toast first, Master? It's almost done. The cheese just needs to brown."

"Oh. Um. Yes, of course." Master Derek sits again.

Isaac cheers up and talks about bodyguard training over his snack.

Stiles chews his toast, and has the odd experience of tasting something delicious with his mouth, while his dick is going on about something else entirely at the same time. He doesn't know for sure that Master Derek will go through with sex or even with making out, right away tonight. Stiles is worked up either way and he's salivating more than strictly necessary for managing cheese toast.

In the bedroom, Master Derek pats Isaac's usual side of the bed to direct him in, and gestures for Stiles to get in on the other side. Isaac turns on a bedside lamp. "So Stiles can see."

Stiles kneels on the wrinkled bedding, holding the edge of a sheet, ready to pull it up when Master Derek gets settled in the middle. Derek backs up to the headboard and hugs himself by the knees. "I have something to say." He glances at Stiles's hands, and leans toward him. Stiles doesn't know what he wants him to do with his hands, and drums his fingers on his own thighs. Derek leans closer until the bedding tips Stiles into him and his cheek comes to rest on Stiles's shoulder.

Master Derek says, "Before that time in the shower with you, I was a virgin, except for... you know, against my will. What Kate did. Sexual things. I told myself over and over again that I'd do intimate things with you, as soon as I knew you were able to know what you wanted. And—what you didn't want." He turns to look at Isaac while keeping his temple on Stiles's shoulder. "Isaac, I'm not really using you as an excuse. But it's... kind of a relief that you need us and sleep with us. I don't know how to—I don't know how to do what I want. I knew Stiles wanted to make love to me, or was at least... turned on in my presence..."

"I want to make love," Stiles says quickly. "How can I help you?"

"I don't know. I expect it to feel good with you. Everything you do when we touch feels good. When you pet my head or kiss me, it's nice. But as soon as we start all I can think of is how much it hurt when Kate did the things she did."

Stiles straightens, making Master Derek slip down his upper arm. "Well. I'm glad the bitch is dead and can't do them to you anymore." He realizes just how far out of turn he's speaking, and curls his lip in a small snarl, to indicate that he doesn't give a damn. Then he thinks how his posture and expression must look and adds anxiously, "I'm not angry at you, Master. I'm not being aggressive!"

Derek holds Stiles's arm for a second. His jaw and voice are tight. "That helps. Letting me know what you think, it helps."

"Anyway, she wasn't your slave. I am. You're mine."

Master Derek agrees. "Yours."

"But we don't have to do anything tonight," says Stiles. "There's plenty of time to figure out how to begin."

"No. I want to go all the way. Tonight."

Isaac and Stiles exchange glances. Isaac sighs without a sound, a lifting and falling of his chest. He leans toward Master Derek. "Sir, it sounds like sometimes you don't enjoy certain activities, even if they feel good."

Master Derek looks thoughtful. After a minute he makes a deep, short hum of agreement. He pauses again, then asks Isaac, "You've had sex classes. Do you know... is it true that if a man has an erection, then he must like whatever is happening to him?"

"No. That's—with respect, sir, that's ridiculous. Whoever told you that is very wrong."

Derek bites his lip. "Dr. Deaton agrees with you. He said the same thing."

"Isaac could tell you how to do what you want. He's had the training."

Derek hums again, a doubtful sound this time.

Isaac asks, "May I make a suggestion?"

Derek answers, "Yeah."

"Don't worry about going all the way."

"But I want to, I'm sure of it."

"Of course, sir. I mean, begin with one thing, only one thing you want to do, and see how it goes. Would you like to be naked?"

In response, Master Derek unbuttons his pajama top.

Isaac holds his hands out. "Would you like help getting undressed?"

Derek nods. "Yes."

Stiles and Isaac each take a sleeve. Isaac folds the shirt and lays it on the bedside table. Master Derek gets his pajama pants halfway down, and lets the boys finish, one on each leg. "I want to take my own boxers off," he says.

Stiles sits back on his heels, but Isaac stays leaned into Derek's space, watching his face.

Master Derek hands him the boxers. "Okay. I'm naked."

"That is how you wanted to be," says Isaac.

"I want Stiles to kiss me. On the cheek." Master Derek doesn't look at Stiles. He touches his own cheek, to point out the spot. Stiles leans in, feeling giddy, and kisses him, and sits back, grinning. Derek smiles a little, but still doesn't look up.

Isaac says, "Maybe we should define what 'all the way’ is, so we know what your goal is, Master Derek."

"I don't know. I just want everything."

Isaac presses, but his tone is gentle and refined as usual. "Is there anything you will be disappointed not to get tonight? Anything you want to be sure you and Stiles do before the end of the night?"

"Fingering. In my ass."

"Your own fingers, or Stiles's?"

"His. Stiles's."

Stiles's dick throbs to full hardness in his pajama pants.

Derek jerks a hand at the bedside table. "I keep lube in there. I never—" he sighs "—never use it."

"What will get you where you need to be, so Stiles can put his fingers inside you?"

Master Derek tenses so fast that he trembles from the force of his muscles tightening, and his hands curl up over his knees. He gives a frustrated huff. "Maybe you can tell me."

"Perhaps a massage," says Isaac.

Derek shuffles so he's lying on his side, presenting his shoulders to Isaac and facing Stiles. Isaac massages his taut shoulders. Stiles gives Master Derek another kiss on the cheek. Derek glances up at him, then at the pillow beside him, and Stiles lies down and strokes the hair over Derek's ear.

Derek drops his hand and gives his own dick fleeting touches up the shaft using only his fingertips, presses the head once with fingers and thumb, and draws his hand away again. Stiles sighs, rolls and twitches his hips to give his own hard-on some stimulation and relief. He lays his palm flat on Master Derek's cheek; Derek closes his eyes and huffs. Stiles takes a deep breath and gives a long, whimpery, wobbly exhale. Derek rumbles, "You sound sexy, Stiles."

Isaac nudges Master Derek until he sprawls onto his belly. Stiles immediately reaches for the small of Derek's back, wanting to run his fingers down to his tailbone and trace the crease at the top of his ass, but he stops before touching. "May I? Touch your back?"

Master Derek, cheek on the pillow, nods. His voice is hoarse. "Yeah."

Stiles spreads his hand across Derek's lower back.

Isaac switches from hard massage on Derek's shoulders to finer work on his neck. Master Derek rolls his shoulders and gives short, soft moans. His eyes are closed. He turns his head just enough to lift his mouth out of the pillow and asks, "Stiles, can you scratch my back while Isaac does my neck?"

Stiles starts with his hands flat, sliding them over Derek's muscles, until he reminds him, "Scratch, please."

"Sorry." Stiles scritches experimentally.

Derek squirms and says, "Harder."

Stiles begins a vigorous combing with his nails. Master Derek makes an approving _hmph_ noise and squishes his face in the pillow again. Isaac moves his attentions to Master Derek's scalp. He hovers his hands shyly before sliding his fingers into Derek's hair, but then his massage is as sure as before.

Master Derek gives a nearly unintelligible mumble, but Stiles hears "'S good, Stiles," and the tone tells him that it's a dismissal from back scratching. Stiles keeps his fingertips on Master Derek's skin, stroking his lower back and his thighs. He wraps his fingers around Derek's ankles and squeezes, imitating Isaac's massage as best he can. He moves back up to rub Derek's calves, and to pat his ass lightly. Master Derek opens his eyes, reaches back and holds aside one buttcheek. "Does my hole look all right? Do you really want to put your fingers in it?"

Stiles whimpers.

"You sound and smell aroused."

Stiles gives an affirmative, two-syllable whimper.

"Use a lot of lubricant," Isaac says.

"Yes, okay, like, how much is enough?"

"More than you think you need."

"Can you pour it on my hand for me? You know what you're doing."

Derek keeps holding himself open for Stiles, but even without anyone touching him, he hisses through his teeth as if something bothers him. Isaac says, "You seem tense again, more so than a moment ago, Master Derek."

Derek swallows. "If he doesn't use enough lube, and he gets his fingers in, and they're too dry, it'll hurt when he pulls them out. How do I know he has enough lube? How can you tell?"

"When he has enough, his fingers will go in easily, and come back out easily. If his finger doesn't go in very easily, with no discomfort at all to you, then he can add more lube. He won't put his finger in if it's too dry for you. And he can add more lube whenever you want."

"Okay," says Master Derek, but the arm he's holding himself open with shakes. Stiles carefully coaxes Derek's elbow outward and his hand away from his ass. He takes Derek's hand and lays it on the pillow, moves back and straddles his thighs. "Let me handle holding you open, Master. You hold onto the pillow."

Derek squeezes his eyes shut and squishes the pillow in his fist.

Stiles barely parts Master Derek's cheeks with one hand. The fingers of his other hand are coated in so much lube he can't even feel Derek's skin, but the hand holding his cheek aside gets all the details: soft, fuzzy, short hairs, cool skin on the curve of Derek's ass, warm as it dips toward his hole.

Stiles sinks his fingers to Master Derek's rim. Stiles's own erection is so distracting that he has to roll and twist his hips, to give it some attention and be able draw his focus back to Master Derek. Derek reaches back and touches Stiles's thigh. "I want you naked, too."

Isaac helps. His thumbs are smooth on Stiles's hips when he rolls down his pajama pants. Stiles rubs half the lube off his hand onto his own clothes. Isaac pours some more directly onto his fingers, and Stiles finds Master Derek's rim again. Derek tucks his hips and moves down, away from Stiles's touch. Stiles waits, fingers fluttering. Derek pushes further into the bedding, then lifts his hips. Stiles slides his fingertips and thumb together to check if he still has plenty of lubrication, and slips back to Derek's rim, touching the pucker in the center. With his other hand he squeezes Derek's ass cheek, maybe too hard, though Derek makes no sound; his brow is smooth and his eyes are closed in relaxation. Stiles lets up on the clutching anyway. He pats Derek's ass and Derek whimpers.

"Good?" asks Stiles.

"Good, continue."

"Like, continue, going inside? Or only keep doing what I'm already doing?"

"I think... go inside."

Stiles puts his fingers inside of Master Derek. Isaac helps Derek relax out of his tension by rubbing his trembling shoulders.

"My fingers are in, a couple knuckles deep. Is this okay?"

Master Derek hums.

Stiles's cock bobs and aches, its head is a demanding point of heat. He murmurs constantly, more or less on the topic of how hot Master Derek is and how interesting, weird, and amazing it is to move his fingertips curiously inside of him.

Master Derek says, "Good. I like to hear you talk," and a moment later he relaxes enough to moan.

Stiles allows himself a tilt of his hips and brushes his dick against the back of Derek's leg, then has to draw back and breathe rapidly to get control. Master Derek gets noisier. Stiles doesn't know when he puts another finger inside. Now he's got three fingers running in and out of that heat and pressure. He holds hard onto Derek's ass, and Derek says, "More." Stiles's body vibrates, caught between intense arousal and the need to carefully oblige Master Derek. Stiles's fingers sink in deeper, and Master Derek groans. Stiles whimpers and lowers his head to the small of Derek's back.

"Stiles, if you want to—" Derek motions, then clutches at his own ass cheek, holding himself wide. "You can, if you want. Come inside. Do you want to?"

"Do I want to... Yes, yes, I want to."

"Okay. I want you to."

Stiles can't even finish a moan. His sounds are short, high-pitched things that aren't quite whimpers and aren't words either.

"Hold out your hand." Isaac pours a a pool of lube into Stiles's palm. Stiles drips it onto the top of his cock and coats himself in one swipe. He's afraid he'll come immediately if he rubs or touches himself any more than that. His jaw slack, he deeply fingers Master Derek a little more, pulls his slick hand out and slaps it onto Master Derek's ass, slides both hands to the bedding to support himself and then just plunges all the way in. Master Derek gives a deep groan.

Stiles is so close. He thrusts, and gives a shallow gasp. "I can't, I can't—"

Master Derek tries to see him over his shoulder. "You can't what? You need to stop? Are you okay?" Isaac doesn't speak, but Stiles feels his gentle hand on his lower back.

"I can't do this—can't come inside my master," cries Stiles, but he's about to anyway—that, or pull out and curl up in a ragged heap.

"You can, I want you to, I want you to do this."

"That's what he wants you to do, Stiles."

Stiles releases. His hips shove and quiver, his head and shoulders buck. He drops his head and his arms shake, holding him up. He slides out and collapses over Master Derek's back as Derek thrusts into the bedding. Stiles has to gather his body and mind back together, moans, swallows, and takes a deep breath. He feels the motion of Derek's ass under his hand, and spreads his fingers to steady him. "Turn over, please. Turn over, Master. Let me do that. Let me take care of you." Master Derek turns onto his side, and Stiles meets his spooked expression.

Isaac, behind Derek, doesn't miss a beat, begins massaging his upper arm as he turns. Derek groans at something Isaac does with his fingertips; his eyes flutter half-closed, then he opens them wide and looks again at Stiles. This time Derek's gaze isn't startled, but there's a suggestion of timidity.

Stiles scrambles up, using Master Derek's hip for support, and touches his cheekbone. "Master. You have such a sweet face."

Derek's answering look is pleading, but Stiles can't tell in what way. "What do you need, Master? Are you afraid?"

Master Derek shakes his head.

"Can I take care of you?"

"I guess..."

Isaac lies on his side behind Master Derek and circles his hand between his shoulder blades. "You 'guess', sir?"

"I mean yes, you can." Master Derek turns his hip so that his hard cock is exposed. He hovers his open hand over it, but leaves room for Stiles to touch.

Stiles's mouth waters and he stares, but he's shy to begin. He closes his hand gently around the middle of Master Derek's cock. Derek throws his head back and Stiles gains some confidence. Derek shows some canine tooth and his eyes flash. Their light wanes until his irises have thin circles of deep red in their centers. He holds his spread hand in the air above his hip, and he does not touch Stiles. Thin claw tips extend from his fingers, and recede again. Stiles strokes up the side of Master Derek's shaft, then lets go long enough to slide his body alongside Derek's and sink down next to him. He wraps his hand back around Master Derek's cock, just below the point, and murmurs, "You can move."

Derek shoves into Stiles and throws his hand over his lower back. He holds on tight and rubs hard. The point of Derek's cock bumps into Stiles's rib cage with his thrusts. Stiles squeaks, "Too much? Does it hurt?"

"No," Master Derek groans. "More."

Stiles can't hold onto Master Derek's cock any tighter than he already is. He's still afraid he's hurting him, but he pumps hard and quick, and squeezes himself in as close as he can get to Master Derek, feeling how hot his chest is. As soon as Stiles closes what little gap they had, Derek tightens his hold on the small of his back and gasps again, "More."

There's not much _more_ that Stiles can do. They're so close that their shoulders are rubbing. His gets his face down onto Master Derek's collarbone, turns his head and meets his upper arm. Stiles nuzzles Derek's arm, and sinks his teeth into it. Master Derek roars, and breaks into a series of cries. His cock jerks in Stiles's grip. Stiles slides his hand up to feel the spurts. He still has Master Derek's arm in his mouth. He detaches and licks his lips, and ducks his head into the tight space between them so he can see Master Derek's come on their chests.

They relax apart. Stiles says, "Master, I love you."

Derek's voice, when he can speak, is ragged but earnest. "I love you, too."

After a long pause, while Stiles feels his own chest rising and falling as he lies on his side, Isaac speaks, softly. "Can I get either of you anything?"

Master Derek turns to look at Isaac over his shoulder. "No. We can get up when we want anything."

Stiles raises his hand and waggles his fingers. "Not to contradict Master Derek, but maybe a washcloth. Please."


	24. Can't Think of Anything Better

********

Isaac gets the washcloth, cleans Stiles's hand for him, goes and rinses out the washcloth and gets back into bed behind Master Derek. He props himself up on an elbow, noses along Derek's shoulder, licks once behind his ear and sniffs the spot.

Master Derek closes his eyes for a moment and kneads Stiles's forearm. "Isaac?"

Isaac dips his head in a slight nod.

"You want to get in between?"

"Yes." Isaac seems almost eager, which, for Isaac, means actually really eager. Master Derek pulls up a blanket to shield Isaac's body from the Stiles and Derek mess. Isaac crawls over Derek and onto the blanket as gracefully as he does everything else. Derek cups Isaac's thin shoulder from behind. Isaac faces Stiles with a gentle, neutral look; then a spark comes into his eyes.

Stiles grins at him, and Isaac's mouth tips up on one side. He touches Stiles's cheek. "I like you."

"I like you, too."

"I like both of you," says Master Derek, and puts an arm across Isaac, to stroke Stiles's hip.

Without warning, Stiles feels chilled and empty. He might cry. He presses his fingers over Master Derek's knuckles. "Are you okay, Master? Were you scared? Did you have too many painful memories?"

Master Derek sits up. "You okay?" Isaac tucks his legs out of the way so that Derek can be nearer Stiles again. Derek coaxes Stiles up and folds him into a hug with one arm. "I feel good. Don't worry, Stiles. You're fine."

"I can't get enough of you." Stiles squeezes himself against Master Derek's chest. "I'd feel better if you touched me... I mean, _touched_ me... inside. Please."

"I can do that. I'll use my fingers, okay? If you want."

"Yes. I want you to. Please. I want you—I want to let you do things to me."

Master Derek turns Stiles onto his side. He strokes his ass so gently it almost tickles, brushes his hole, pulls back and rubs around the backs of Stiles's thighs. He strokes his balls and Stiles gasps, then Master Derek barely touches his hole again. Stiles finds Isaac's shin and grabs on tight so he won't fuck himself backward onto Master Derek's fingers.

"I need lube, wait a minute." Master Derek's fingers return, cold and slick. "Here's two fingers, okay?" He slides them in, deep. Stiles's hole clenches, he groans, his dick pulses and gets hard again. Master Derek hums.

Isaac is sitting at the headboard, pajamas on. He clears his throat and loosely drops his hand over his crotch. "You two... you turn me on so much... may I, please, have permission to touch myself?"

Master Derek's voice is deep. "Yes."

Isaac asks, "It won't bother you, Stiles?"

Stiles's voice wants to do nothing but grunt because of what Master Derek's fingers are doing inside him, but he manages, "No, go ahead."

Isaac raises his hips and tugs down his pajama pants; they crumple over Stiles's hand. Isaac lets his legs fall open. He frees his slender, curved cock and lightly touches himself, drawing his fingers from the base to just below the tip. He plays his fingertips on his shaft in a series of slow squeezes. His lips part and his eyes fall shut; his short huffs are only just quiet enough not to be whines.

Stiles moves his grip from Isaac's leg to his own cock and jerks himself rapidly.

Isaac comes, grunting, hissing through his teeth, and Stiles gets that feeling that he's about to have an orgasm for sure, point of no return, and then it hits, hard.

Master Derek slides his fingers out and pats Stiles's ribs, smooths his hand down over his hip. His mouth dips behind Stiles's ear and he murmurs, "Beautiful."

Derek is quiet and still while Isaac and Stiles recover. Then he gets up and sits on the edge of the bed. Stiles cranes to look at him over his shoulder.

"Gonna go take a shower." Master Derek stands stiffly. He shuts the bathroom door behind himself.

Stiles feels wrong apart from him, so he excuses himself to Isaac: "Are you okay alone?"

"I'd rather come along." Isaac slips out of his pajama top and cleans himself with it. Stiles knocks on the bathroom door.

"Come in," mumbles Master Derek.

He's standing in the middle of the floor, slowly running his hand up and down his stiff cock, looking glum.

"Aren't you showering?" Stiles asks him.

Master Derek glances at Stiles out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah."

Isaac tucks his shirt in the hamper and sits on his cedar shower seat, which is kept outside the shower when he's not using it. Stiles asks, "May I get in the shower with you, Master?"

"Yes."

Stiles hops in and turns on the water, and lets Master Derek know when it's hot. He steps in mechanically, still hard. He scrubs up his hair with plain water, then supports himself with one hand flat against the wall, head bowed, jaw slack, and water dripping off his lower lip. His eyes are closed, emphasizing his dark, wet lashes. He jerks himself, his hips pump, and he comes all over the tiles.

Stiles reaches out to touch his hip, but curls his fingers and pulls his hand back. "That was so sexy, Master Derek. If I hadn't just come I would come right now, from watching you... are you okay? Master?"

Master Derek sinks to his knees onto the shower floor. He's saying, "Why." He sits on his ass, bows his head and puts his hand over his forehead, sticking his fingers into his oily hair. Water splatters off his knuckles.

"Isaac, help," Stiles begs.

Isaac opens the shower door. "Here. Take my seat, put it in the shower, and make him sit on it. Then you get out, so I have room to shampoo his hair."

"I don't need my hair washed." Derek slumps onto the seat. He drops his hands and water runs down his arms.

"Yes, you do," Isaac informs him.

"Why," Master Derek whispers again. "Why are there two beautiful young men in my bed acting like it's the best thing that ever happened to them?"

Stiles says, "You being my master _is_ the best thing that's ever happened to me. Is it the best thing that's ever happened to you, Isaac?"

Isaac doesn't answer right away, seeming to be in thought. Finally he responds, "I think so. I can't really think of anything else better."

Stiles waits while Isaac gives Master Derek a long shampoo, and a scalp massage. Isaac shuts the water off and says authoritatively, "You're clean now, sir. It's time to get dry."

Master Derek lets Stiles towel him.

Isaac asks Master Derek, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Do you want a hug?"

Derek nods, and Isaac hugs him, nuzzling his forehead against Derek's shoulder. They hug for some time, swaying a little. Isaac says, "You need a drink of water."

Master Derek agrees, so they put him in a robe, and Isaac asks him where he wants to have his water. Master Derek chooses the kitchen table. Stiles gets the water.

Isaac and Stiles sit in chairs and play _Love You to Bits_ on Stiles's tablet. They always let the bittersweet theme song play for a long time before they begin a new level.

Master Derek finishes most of his glass of water, cradles the glass in his hands, and asks the boys if they mind bringing their game to the bedroom, so he can go to sleep with both of them in the room.

"Sure, Master."

"Of course."

When they're too tired to think about the puzzles in the game anymore, Isaac looks into Stiles's eyes. Stiles looks back, and Isaac kisses him softly on the lips.

********

Master Derek is with the boys, washing dishes, even though Stiles keeps taking them from his hands. Derek has been silent for a long time. He clears his throat, and in a casual way he asks, "So, Stiles. Your dad used to be a freeman?"

"Yep, until he was nineteen."

Master Derek clears his throat again, coughs a little behind his hand, and clears his throat a third time. "Where did he live?"

"He worked for a lavender farmer. I mean, on a huge lavender farm. He did all sorts of things there."

"What kind of things?"

"Lots of things! Guarding the place—he's an excellent guard—and doing maintenance on the drying houses for the lavender. And keeping up the white stone walking paths. He could even repair the fountains they had for decoration. It was a fancy place in the picking season, when people would come. And that's how Dad met Mom. Mistress Penelope loved to take vacations at the lavender farm, and she would bring her girl with her to pick lavender. And the girl was Claudia, my mom."

"Mistress Penelope?"

"Yes. Master Deucalion's grandmother, Miss Penelope. My mother's owner."

"What happened, that your dad was enslaved when he was nineteen? Was the farm raided?"

"No, he sold himself."

Master Derek coughs, and this time it's not like he's trying to act casual. "He what?"

"He sold himself. To Miss Penny."

"Why?"

"Because of the beautiful girl, Claudia. She would pick lavender for her mistress, and Shannon would come up with all kinds of reasons she might need his help with it. And Claudia would come up with questions to ask him and favors he could do, because she said she really badly needed help picking lavender. And one day, she confessed that before they had talked and spent time together, she had hoped Shannon was a slave, because then her mistress could buy him. But he was a real freeman working for the lavender farmer, with wages and everything. Dad asked her if he could buy her for himself, if he saved up enough money. Claudia said, no—" Stiles pauses for a small sigh "—she wished he could, but she didn't ever want to leave Miss Penelope."

Master Derek tries to wash another dish. Stiles takes it from him and finishes it, hands it to Isaac, and goes on: "So after Miss Penelope and Claudia went home from that vacation, the one where Claudia told Shannon her feelings for him, Shannon—he felt the same way as she did, only maybe even more so—he got some guys to drive him in a truck to Miss Penelope's house. He asked Miss Penny, if he quit his job at the farm, and signed himself off to her, would she pay enough to buy Claudia a nice wedding, and a ring. And Miss Penny said yes, she would. But she already had money saved to buy Claudia a wedding someday. So, instead of paying Shannon with that money, she had two rooms remodeled into a little apartment in her house, for just Shannon and Claudia. She said she got a very excellent deal on such a good man, and she was happy for Claudia, too."

Master Derek asks, "Is your mother... is your mother living?"

"No." Now Stiles has to clear his throat. "Miss Penelope tried to save her, she got all the best doctors, but it didn't—it didn't work out. She had cancer."

"I'm sorry." Master Derek pauses. "So then you went to live with Duke..."

"Well, not right away after Mom died. Miss Penelope passed away, too. Then all her favorite slaves went to Master Deucalion. He promised to take care of us."

"I'm surprised he didn't let your dad go free."

"Oh, no. Master Duke would never do that to my dad."

Derek hands the next dish to Stiles. "I see."

********

Stiles knows that Isaac will need emotional support for the meeting when the Hale pack talks about what happened to him. Stiles doesn't want to start an argument with Master Derek over dressing Isaac in Derek's clothes for this one night. So, Stiles wears one of Isaac's shirts—and no deodorant—for two days before the big meeting.

"Change into this, quick," Stiles says before he and Isaac get out of the car. "I didn't want to give it to you at home, so Master Derek couldn't notice it in time to say we couldn't do it."

"You wore this for me? Really? Thank you." Isaac wriggles out of his overshirt and changes quickly.

The meeting is at Master Duke's and Dad's house. A wrought iron gate divides the stone wall at the front of the house. A slave dressed as if Peter bought his clothes opens the gate for them.

Stiles gives Isaac's hand a squeeze. "I've told my dad all about you, he probably told Master Duke about you, and Master Duke might want to hug you. I'm not sure whether he'll ask beforehand or just do it, so be ready."

Isaac gives a determined nod.

The pack is gathering in a long, plain room with a stone fireplace. There are some werewolves and slaves there that Stiles doesn't know, but he's seen most of them at Hale House or at work. Almost as soon as Stiles and Isaac get inside, Deucalion opens his arms and says, "Do I get to hug this Mr. Isaac, then?" Isaac glances back at Master Derek, and he gives him a nod. Isaac takes Deucalion's elbow, and Duke pulls him in.

Deucalion releases Isaac and takes Master Derek's hand briefly in both of his. "I hope that soon I will be a friend to your family again."

"That would be nice, sir."

Dad shakes Isaac's hand, and nods to Stiles. Stiles nods solemnly back. Without saying anything or waiting for permission from Master Derek, Deucalion gives Stiles a quick, strong hug.

Contessa is at the meeting, in a well-made blazer and blouse, skirt just below the knee, bracelet and watch. Contessa shakes Isaac's hand. By now, Isaac is looking pale, and backs up to Stiles, motioning with his fingers to request holding hands.

Uncle Peter strolls over and leans close to Isaac's ear. "You don't have to say anything unless you want to. I'll tell them the story you told me, and you listen. If I tell it right, all you have to do is nod your agreement. And if you disagree, you can say that freely, as well. You can speak aloud, or you can nod or shake your head. If you need to make a correction, you can text me, Stiles, or Derek."

Alpha Hale gives Isaac's curls a ruffle; he bows respectfully, and Stiles sees Alpha Hale breathe the air over Isaac's head. She says to Isaac, "Don't worry, honey. You don't have to make any decisions. You let us know what happened, and we'll decide what to do with those humans."

Peter asks Isaac if it's okay with him if he describes a little of his physical condition when Stiles and Derek found him at the farmers' market. Isaac nods.

Everyone faces Isaac. Uncle Peter tells them how Isaac's hair was matted to his head and left sores there. Stiles tries not to chew his thumbnail. He does rub it against his front tooth a little, then drops his hand and lets it jitter. Master Derek doesn't stand the way the other werewolves stand. He seems even less at ease than Isaac does.

Uncle Peter goes on to tell the story Isaac told him, and Isaac nods his agreement. Peter adds, "I've become a non-neutral individual."

"Given Isaac's story, and what I saw of his condition when he was found, I'm ready to fight," says Alpha Hale. "Nobody is required to join us. Deucalion, this has tipped the balance, and the Hales are your friends again."

"How nice," says Duke.

Alpha Hale warns him, "If you eat any human beings, we will have to reconvene for further discussion."

"I'll let you know if that happens," Duke replies.

Alpha Hale addresses the group. "I can speak for Mr. Hale as well. I'm sure he'll come along with us to take back the house. Who else is coming? Yes, Peter, obviously you. Derek, do you want to come along? Peter did Kate for you. If you want to, you can come with us and do this for Isaac."

Master Derek makes a small sound. Stiles can't tell whether it's one of agreement, denial, or uncertainty.

"We'll come with you," says Deucalion. "Shannon deserves revenge, and you need me to guide you. It's my old house you're infiltrating."

"It's much too dangerous for you," Peter replies. "I'll give you a piece of paper and a pen, and you draw us a map."

"If you're willing to follow it, Peter, I'm willing to draw it." Deucalion continues, "Peter and Alpha Hale, I'll let you do most of the fighting. Shannon and I will make sure you don't accidentally kill any of my old people who still live there."

"We'll go on the next full moon," Talia decides. "Do any of you object?"

Deucalion says, "Isn't that rather obvious of us? We are werewolves."

Peter asks, "Isaac, will you be able to control your shapeshifting well enough to come with us on this next full moon?"

Isaac grips Stiles's hand and takes a breath to speak.

"I'm not assuming that Isaac is going along," Master Derek breaks in. "He's doing—he's doing very well, though."

Isaac looks at the floor, loosens his hold on Stiles's hand, plays with Stiles's fingers.

Uncle Peter raises questions of the layout of the house, and routines of the household servants and family. He asks Isaac, as the one to most recently live in the house, if he thinks he has anything helpful to add.

Isaac lets go of Stiles's hand. He tells the pack that the outer wall has been repaired, and the main hall, but the inner courtyard wall was never fully repaired.

Stiles speaks up without being asked. "One thing Master Duke's house used to have, was these holes, under the roof, at the top of the wall, for werewolves to sit in and watch if an enemy was coming down the hall. They weren't used for that, because Master Duke didn't have any enemies back then, but that's what they were made for. Probably humans don't have werewolves sitting in the holes."

Dad asks Isaac, "Have the new owners filled in those gaps?"

"The holes were still there when I lived there. People talked about filling them in, and putting in more cameras. But it was only talk. I don't know whether they've done anything to carry through with those plans. I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

"If those gaps are still open," says Uncle Peter, "that's a potential advantage to the werewolf side in a fight."

"As to cameras," says Deucalion, "if they did install some, that's not going to give them any information we won't give them ourselves, by showing up on the place."

"We'll send some investigators to find out more," says Talia. "Good evening, everyone. Deucalion and Shannon, thank you for the use of your house."

On the way out, in the entryway, Isaac whispers to Stiles, "That house is a fortress."

"I know. I used to live there." Along with all the talk during the meeting about the details of home, this only serves to make Stiles homesick. Dad, getting ready to leave, reads his mind.

"Homesick, son?"

Stiles sighs, and Dad says, "Me, too."

"Those holes up by the ceiling used to be so much fun."

Right before they leave, Master Derek tells his mother, "I'm definitely coming along."

********

On the way home, Master Derek makes the driver stop at a fast food restaurant and bring supper out to the car. It's a good idea. The greasy burgers and fizzy soda make Stiles feel better.

At home, Master Derek cleans and marks Stiles, then goes off to brood with his music again. Stiles sits on the couch with a book open on his tablet, and Isaac asks if he can see what Stiles is reading.

"Sure, sit down."

Isaac gets a lot cuddlier after Stiles has been marked. Asking to read over Stiles's shoulder is really about leaning in close and maybe getting some scent on himself. Stiles tilts his head so that Isaac can easily rub his chin in the short hair at Stiles's nape.

"Peter is only taking Deucalion along so he won't hurt his pride," says Isaac. "Peter is doing this for his own pride, because he sold the wrong slave—me—to that family. And I turned out to be a werewolf. Now everybody will know that Peter and—and _Talia Hale_ killed those people because of me. And I'll never have a home again."

"Isaac," Stiles says for the umpteenth time, "you're living here permanently."

"I want to. I want to. But Master Derek isn't sure he wants me."

"He is sure. Forgive him."

"He hasn't done anything wrong to forgive." Isaac goes silent and reads over Stiles's shoulder for another minute, then asks Stiles if he's ever seen Mr. Hale.

"Yes, at Hale House. Three times."

"Is he scary?"

"Mr. Hale? Heck, no. He's almost always in his big wolf shape, and he has these pointy flecks of white fur at the corners of his eyes. They make me think of how Master Derek's eyes crinkle up when he smiles."

"Peter said, on the phone, that if Mr. Hale had gotten to Kate Argent first, there wouldn't even be a body left."

"Well, that's true," says Stiles. "But I mean, Derek is his son."

Isaac sits up straight and taps the arm of the couch in an unusual display of restless energy. "You know that I'm going along to take back Deucalion's house. Master Derek has to let me come. I'll take care of him there. How are you feeling, with your dad going?"

Stiles should be out of his mind with fear about that, but he's not. Dad and Duke got out alive the night of the surprise attack, and this time they're ready for a fight. "I'm good. I think."

Isaac pulls his long legs up onto the couch, hugs his knees and tucks his chin behind them. "What if I see my dad there?"

Stiles leans until his arm bumps the side of Isaac's leg. "Are you angry with him for what he did to you?"

Isaac makes a muffled sound, lays his cheek is on his knees and says, "I understand being put out of the house, because of course they don't want a werewolf slave. My dad is human, so he had to stay there. I get that part. I don't understand the poisoning. What good did it do anyone? What did he really think it was going to help?"

"Do you think you'll have time to talk to him, in the fighting?"

"I don't know. I hope I don't see him... in case he doesn't want to see me again. But I would like a hug."

"It's not the same, but would you like me to hug you?"

Isaac nods, sits up and reaches an arm out to him. Stiles drapes an arm over Isaac's shoulder, and they duck their foreheads together.

That night, Stiles runs his hand down Derek's bare back as he lies on his stomach in bed. "Master Derek, are you sure you want to go? Will you be able to manage with all the strange humans there? They'll want to kill you. How are you going to do it? Are you going to be okay?"

Master Derek rolls onto his side, scratches his chin, makes a few attempts to speak and finally answers, "I always think strange humans will want to try and kill me. This could be the one time and place that the way I feel all the time will be appropriate. Maybe it will even calm me down to be there, and to know they're going to hate me. Maybe I'll turn brave." He groans and flips onto his back, and stares at the ceiling. "Probably no one but Mom'll be getting any licks in anyway."

********


	25. Pet Him

********

Master Derek sits on the couch and makes Stiles sit next to him. They're playing a board game after supper. Isaac gets to kneel, because the game is set up on the coffee table and it's easiest if someone kneels on the other side. Derek starts out playing good-naturedly, but he gets grumpier and frownier over the course of several moves, even though the game is going smoothly, and there's no way for him to be decisively losing yet. And anyway, the boys plan on losing to him, and he probably knows that.

In the middle of moving his piece, Master Derek says in an angry tone, "The Hales aren't neutral anymore. Deucalion and your father can come for supper tomorrow night."

Stiles's heart and stomach are competing to see which can do the most flips. He's been ready for this. He can't beg Derek to wait and do it a little later, when it won't be such short notice for Duke and Dad. Derek's got his emotions in the right place _now_ , and Stiles can't mess with that. When the board game is over, he airs out the plant room and spare bed, in anticipation that the visit might go late and Master Derek will say Dad and Deucalion should stay the night. While everything is airing, Stiles texts his father and tells him to get Master Deucalion to accept when Master Derek invites him.

Dad texts back, "Okay."

Master Derek paces the apartment, unseeing; Isaac tries to predict where he will end up, and stand at the ready. Derek keeps weaving around him without even flicking his eyes at him. Finally, Derek squares himself and says, "I have to call and invite them."

Stiles stands nearby as emotional support while Master Derek sternly invites Deucalion to supper. "And bring Shannon. Please. Stiles would like to see him." He pockets his phone and scowls. "He's delighted to come."

Stiles calls in dinner-emergency to work for the next day and stays home to cook. He takes Isaac to the grocery store with him and they make short work of the shopping, even though Isaac won't go out of Stiles's line of sight to get things.

Stiles uses mostly foods that can keep, before and after cooking: things that reheat well, and lots of cold finger foods. There won't be anything going on the stove while Master Duke and Dad are visiting. Stiles sets up video entertainment on a computer. When he has a moment of downtime, he texts Dad again. "Master Derek is afraid of you."

Dad replies, "You have some of my shirts." He gives one to Stiles whenever he can, to make up for all the lost hugs.  
"Wear one from now until suppertime  
"Give it to me to put on when I get there.  
"Don't wash your hair between now and then."

Stiles texts back, "Ok"

Master Derek gets home from work. "When they get here, you boys can, um, do whatever, I guess. I'm not giving specific instructions for where to stand or who can hug whom."

Stiles bumps gently sideways against Isaac and says, "Master Duke likes you. He'll want to hug you again."

Isaac licks his lip and shudders.

"Don't be nervous. He hugged you at the meeting and you did really well."

"I know."

Master Derek says, "I'm going to listen to music with my big headphones on, so speak up, both of you, if you need anything."

Isaac and Stiles do some last-minute furniture polishing. Isaac tips his head toward the master bedroom. He says, low, "I can hear the music coming from the headphones. With it so close to his ear, I don't think he can hear us. I was thinking. Master Derek didn't pay for me. You both found me. So I belong as much to you as to him."

"Oh, no. You're definitely Derek's."

Isaac's eyes are even larger and more liquid than usual. "But, you're in charge of me, right?"

Stiles sees that he has missed the point. He bites his lip and takes a decisive breath. "Okay. I'll mark you."

"You will?"

"Yes. It will make you feel better."

The boys go through the plant room into the slave's bathroom and warm up the water. Stiles gets out fresh towels, squeezes their fluffiness, and fusses with neatly folding them over the rack. "Do you want to wash yourself, first?"

"You do it," says Isaac.

Stiles pats the towels one more time and strips out of all of his clothes. It feels strange to be taking Master Derek's part in this. He washes Isaac all over, even behind the ears. Isaac turns to face him and looks so much calmer than he did before that Stiles feels excellent about the whole thing.

Now it's time to pee, and Stiles is so nervous for a moment that he's afraid he won't be able to do it, which seems dumb to him, because nervousness should make him have to pee. Then he goes ahead and does it, and his body works fine. Isaac has no complaints. Stiles rinses him; they stand on the bath rug and towel each other off. Isaac gives Stiles a slight shove, which Stiles takes as an invitation to towel Isaac more aggressively. Isaac retaliates with his towel, and they end in laughing.

They get dressed for supper. Stiles does one more check of the preparations, then sits down to read while waiting, but he can't concentrate when the visit is so close.

Isaac sits close to him. "I've been a human almost all of my life. I lived with only humans most of my life. Human owners would mark me when I had to go to a class. It's not like they could smell it, and it's not like I could smell it. I'd get to class and the werewolves there, or even on the street outside, they'd get maybe within a yard of me. They'd pause, and stop and look me over, but not for long. They'd turn away. It was like magic. I haven't felt that safe in a long time. I feel good."

Stiles squeezes Isaac's hand. "I'm glad."

Master Derek comes into the living room, hair slicked down, tugging at the hem of a soft, long-sleeve knit shirt that he hardly ever wears. He glances over the back of the couch at Stiles's book, and when Stiles tilts his head back, he notices Master Derek taking a strong sniff over Isaac's head. Derek takes another sniff, looks thoughtful as if he's tasting a new and puzzling flavor, then glances at Stiles and his brows lower—not the lowest they can get, but noticeably low. "You're not doing that again, Stiles."

Isaac bows his head, and makes loose fists on his lap.

"I think I hear the elevator." Master Derek tugs on his shirt again.

Isaac leans forward and cocks his head slightly. "Yes, I hear it too."

Stiles jumps up, but Isaac rises at the same time. "I'll get the door." He waits for the knock. Stiles would have just opened it when he could hear Dad in the hall. He's losing all the manners he learned in his gate boy training. Isaac greets Dad and Deucalion by their names, and says, "Won't you come in?"

"Thank you, Isaac," says Master Deucalion. "It's good to see you."

"Likewise, sir."

Master Duke hugs Stiles, and greets Derek as an old friend. Derek accepts his hug. Stiles waits, bouncing his heels, and finally Master Duke orders, "Shannon, hug your impatient son."

Dad hooks one strong arm around Stiles, pinning his arm, and kisses him on the cheek. "I'm glad to be here, kiddo."

Master Duke settles on the couch. Without looking to Master Derek, Isaac and Stiles kneel at his feet. Master Derek did say they could do anything they wanted during the visit. Dad sits on an overstuffed chair. The boys haven't been on their knees for long when Deucalion touches Isaac on the shoulder. "Come on up here, son." He pats the cushion next to him. Isaac doesn't hesitate.

Stiles excuses himself to go to the kitchen, and Dad follows him. He leans back against the counter while Stiles scrubs the outer skin of a cantaloupe. Stiles gestures Dad a little farther down the counter so there's room to use a cutting board next to the sink. Everything else for supper is ready and waiting in the fridge, but the melon is going to be as fresh as possible. Stiles takes up a knife, slices the end off the cantaloupe, stands it on the flat end and makes another cut to halve it.

Dad asks, "Are you okay? I mean, with me and Master Duke going along with the Hales, to take back the old house."

Stiles leaves the knife in the cantaloupe, leans over and grips his dad's shirt, lays his head on his chest. "Yeah, I'm good with it. We have to be good with it."

"Are you really okay, or only saying what you think you have to say?"

"I'm really good with you going. I just don't want you to think that—" Stiles licks his lips and tries again. "I want you to know that you're so important to me."

Dad runs his hand over Stiles's head and gives him a quick kiss on the temple. "I know."  
Stiles is still wearing Dad's too-big shirt. Now Dad asks for it back. He rubs his wrists and forearms over Stiles's head, picking up scent. Then he heads for the plant room to change his shirt.

Stiles proceeds with seeding and cubing the cantaloupe. Master Derek comes into the kitchen, tense and pale. "This was a bad idea."

Stiles swallows his sigh. He was afraid of this. He goes to the refrigerator and takes out the honey mint dressing that's been chilling to meld the flavors, and the tiny pieces of mozzarella that Isaac meticulously cut for him.

Master Derek looks around the kitchen and his fingers move as if he's searching for something to pick up. "I can't do this. I'm going to bed."

"We haven't had supper yet, Master." Stiles's patience slips on that last word. He tumbles the melon cubes in the bowl of dressing.

"You can bring me something in my room." Master Derek turns to go. Dad is standing in the archway, seeming hesitant to come in, with one hand on the jamb, so his arm blocks the way. Master Derek will have to go around him, twisting to make himself slip through easily. Master Derek pauses. Stiles grabs that moment of indecision—and Derek's hand.

"Sit at the table, please, Master?" Asking a question Derek can say _no_ to won't work. Stiles pitches his voice down. "I mean, please sit down, Master. At the table. Here." He gets him across the floor, and pats the seat of a chair. Derek looks at it as if he's not sure how it works, then plunks into it.

Dad comes all the way into the kitchen. He looks at Stiles, and the look means _This is how we're going to do it_. Stiles nods and steps away, but not so far that Master Derek will think instantly of fleeing. Derek looks at his own hands, rolls his wrist, furls and unfurls his fingers, and plants the heels of his hands on the table as if to stand up.

"Don't bother to get up on my account, Master Derek," says Dad, close behind him.

Master Derek turns in his chair. "What? No, I wasn't..." His fingers tense and his hands push against the table as if he's still going to scrape his chair back, but instead he slouches forward again.

Stiles grabs a box of colored toothpicks out of a drawer and stabs mozzarella onto the tops of the melon cubes. Dad quietly huffs and steps closer to Derek. Master Derek is too frozen to do anything about it. That's a good thing, because Stiles is about ready to manhandle him back into position if he bolts, and that wouldn't be very sensitive to Master Derek's needs. He sneaks a look while pretending to focus on fancying up the melon appetizers. Derek is once again attentive only to the backs of his own hands.

Stiles stands with his back to the counter, reaching behind himself to the cutting board and placing melon cubes one at a time on a plate.

Dad pulls a kitchen chair around next to Master Derek's, sits, and sticks an arm under Derek's nose. Master Derek can't not smell something stuck under his nose. Stiles's scent is all over Dad's arms and wrists, so Derek has to sort out Dad's scent from Stiles's. He spends a long time about sniffing Dad's wrist; he even takes his arm in his hands to hold him still. Master Derek wolfs out a little, eyes flashing. Stiles takes this as a good sign. Master Derek sniffs his way up Dad's arm, and pauses to glance up at him. Stiles can't see his father's face from this angle, but he knows from experience the steady look Master Derek is getting. Derek lowers his eyes, snuffles intently up to Dad's shoulder, and takes a long whiff at his armpit, which because of the shirt also smells like Stiles and Dad. Master Derek takes long, loud breaths over the curve of Dad's neck, blows to clear his nose, checks Dad's wrist again, and touches one of his long teeth to the skin of his neck.

"Only Duke is allowed to leave marks," says Dad.

"Sorry," Master Derek answers in a roughened voice. "Trying to get a better—can I lick?"

"Yes, within reason."

Master Derek darts a lick and then smells the licked spot intently.

Stiles says quietly, "Dad."

Dad turns to glance at Stiles, without disturbing Derek's concentration on the other side of his neck. Stiles makes broad petting motions and mouths, _Pet him_.

Dad spreads his fingers over Master Derek's hair. For a second after the first stroke, Master Derek doesn't do anything, but Dad doesn't stop, and Master Derek almost imperceptibly leans toward him.

Stiles is through with subtlety. He pushes off from the counter, goes around the table, and gives Derek a tiny shove between the shoulder blades. Dad correctly interprets this and gathers Master Derek in, and he tumbles stiffly forward. He leans his cheek low on Dad's shoulder where he can smell his neck and his armpit at the same time.

Stiles returns to his cantaloupe and mozzarella. He places one, two, three more appetizers on the plate. He takes it up and crosses the kitchen toward the living room, to provide appetizers on the coffee table.

Dad smooths and hugs Derek's upper back, and Stiles can barely hear Derek give a small groan, like a dog who's just been petted in the right place. Stiles's heart starts to hurt and his eyes start to burn, and he's so afraid of disturbing them that he drops the plate and breaks it. Luckily he has extra cantaloupe cubes on the cutting board. Also luckily, he hasn't dropped one of the peacock plates. He bought some beige plates with a brown stripe on the rim that he liked, and was using one of them.

Master Derek doesn't even flinch when the plate hits the floor. Stiles gets his shaking under control; it's just the usual shaking he gets when he makes a mistake. He cleans up the plate, and the little trails of dressing left by the melon. He sets more appetizers on a new plate as gently as if the sound of melon landing on a plate might disturb Master Derek, and steps past Derek and Dad as if they are sleeping babies.

In the living room, Isaac is sprawled across the couch on Deucalion's lap, which also goes past satisfying to heart-affecting. Master Duke is saying, "I like you, Isaac. You should come home with me."

Stiles knows this is meant as a compliment and not as a threat to take Isaac away. The strange thing is that Isaac seems to know it, too. He spreads his arms and arches his back across Master Duke's knees. "I'm staying here forever."

Stiles clutches his chest—he remembers to do it with the hand not holding the plate of melon cubes—puts down the melon, and gestures to invite Master Duke to help himself. Stiles excuses himself to Master Duke as he crosses in front of him. He kneels at Duke's feet, reaches up and squeezes Isaac's hand. Deucalion leans over and rubs Stiles's hair lightly.

When Dad comes out of the kitchen, Master Derek shows up, too, and stays in the living room. They all eat supper a couple of hours later, nibbling on cold appetizers meantime. Stiles shows Dad all of his plants. After supper, they sit around, watch funny movies, and talk. Dad also gets his hands on Isaac, who's been acting like a friendly cat all evening. After a couple of movies, it's so late that Master Derek says he doesn't feel right making them drive home.

"I drove us," says Dad. "I don't mind driving late."

"Don't put yourself out, Derek," says Master Duke. "We won't run into any trouble. And if we do, Shannon and I will protect ourselves."

Master Derek looks worried. "I don't know—"

"The plant room is ready for them," says Stiles quickly.

Master Derek is drawing in on himself again. Stiles mouths to Isaac, _Get him to bed_. Master Derek goes along with Isaac, without protest.

Stiles sits for another forty-five minutes with Dad and Duke in the plant room, then hugs them goodnight and goes to Master Derek. One bedside lamp is on. Derek seems relaxed, lying on his side while Isaac sits at his head, with his legs tucked up on the bed. Stiles gets in behind Derek and spoons him, stroking his upper leg through the pajama pants. "Derek."

"Master," Derek prompts him.

"Master Derek." Stiles tugs Derek's pajama pants partway down and wriggles lower so he can mouth at Derek's hip.

Derek moans, takes his pants down further and grips his own cock. Stiles's rush of arousal is almost painful. Derek's fingers flutter and he lets go of himself. "We can't."

Stiles sighs deeply. He slides up alongside Master Derek's back, nuzzles his neck, and spoons him again. Master Derek begins, "I can't, with your dad here, and Deucalion—"

"They don't care," Isaac says quietly.

"I'm nervous," says Master Derek.

"We don't have to," says Stiles. "Just go to sleep, Master."

"I don't know if I can sleep."

Isaac asks, "Do you want me to sleep on the floor in front of the door?"

Stiles mentally kicks himself for not thinking of it first.

"Do you want to?" Derek sounds incredulous and relieved.

Isaac nods smoothly and says, "Yes," to Derek. He licks his lower lip, leans over and says in a low voice, near Stiles's ear, "I'm the bodyguard, and you're not." He pulls back and gives Stiles a wicked look.

Stiles tries to frown at him, but it's not working. Isaac's expression turns amused and they smile at each other.

"I have to get Isaac's bed ready for him," Stiles says to Master Derek. "I'll be right back." Isaac stays with Master Derek until Stiles tells him his blankets are ready outside the door. When Isaac comes out of the bedroom, Stiles says to him, "Lucky."

Isaac's eyes shine. "I let you make my bed, didn't I?"

Stiles skews his mouth to the side so he won't smile at him. He makes sure Isaac is settled, and locks the bedroom door. He climbs back into bed with Master Derek.

"Most likely he'll get stepped on. We'll trip over him in the morning," Derek comments.

Stiles asks, "Do you feel better?"

Pause. "Yes."

Stiles sighs. "Okay, then. You did so good tonight, you know. You did a great job. And my dad loves you. If you were a slave, he would buy you."

Master Derek snorts. "You're ridiculous."

Stiles works an arm under one of Derek's arms and snugs him. "You did so, so good."

Eventually Master Derek says, "Thank you."

********


	26. Waiting

********

The Hales are going to infiltrate Deucalion's old house tomorrow night. Stiles is trying not to think too hard about it. He lounges on the floor, leaning against the couch and playing with his tablet. Isaac walks up to him and says, "Look." He knits his brow in concentration. His eyebrows grow heavy, and a ridge of wrinkled flesh bunches at the bridge of his nose. Isaac closes his eyes, and his brow smooths out again. "I can do that without doing my claws at all. My teeth go a little, but not all the way, unless I let them."

Stiles is impressed. Isaac explains, "I have to be able to do this by myself, so I don't need Derek to help me during the mission. He'll never let me go along if he has to watch me. I need to be able to tell him that I can watch _him_."

Supper is simple: sausages and peppers on buns. Master Derek, Stiles, and Isaac eat distractedly. Afterward, Master Derek takes a phone call. "Hi, Mom... Oh. I see... Yes. I can do it."

Isaac is listening hard; Stiles knows he can hear Mama's side of the conversation.

Master Derek ends the call. "They moved the plan up a night. It's tonight."

"Oh." Stiles twists his hands together and allows himself only a small sigh before he gathers his reasonableness. "Well, none of us was going to get any sleep tonight, anyway. Because it was going to be tomorrow night."

Isaac gets down on his knees in front of Master Derek. "Don't go."

"Because you're afraid I'll get hurt?"

"Yes, sir. Obviously."

"My mother is expecting my presence."

Isaac stands up. "In that case: I'm your bodyguard. I have to come with you."

Master Derek considers Isaac for some time, then motions toward the bathroom. "Tonight. You're my bodyguard tonight. I'm marking you just this once, to go on this mission. Stiles, you'd better stand in the bathroom and wait for us."

They don't take very long. When Isaac steps glistening wet out of the shower into the steamy bathroom, Stiles is standing ready with his towel. He wants to ask Isaac if he feels much better, marked by the master, but with Master Derek right there in the shower, he asks instead about the phone call. "What did you hear? What did Mama say?"

"Hale family spies found out that the humans have extra security planned for the full moon. We're going tonight so they won't be as ready for us."

Stiles gives up pretending to be all about toweling Isaac off, and puts his palm on Isaac's shower-warmed shoulder, then lays his cheek on that warmth. Isaac twists to look at him, and when Stiles raises his head, Isaac is grinning. They both try to sober their faces at the same time. The infiltration is tonight.

"I'm glad about one thing," says Isaac. "If the family knows we're coming, that means the master and mistress have taken my young mistress out of the house. She's younger than I am, and in any case, she wouldn't fight. I know the Hales wouldn't mean to hurt her, and I didn't think I was worried, but maybe I was, a little."

Stiles ruffles Isaac's head with the towel. "That's good. The less you have to worry about, the better. And she won't have to be there to see any of it."

"I'll tell you something else that helps me, about tonight... I always liked Mr. Mason better than my owners, if you don't think it's wrong for me to say so. And he won't be there."

"I think I like him, too," says Stiles, "even though I never met him. He spoke up for you."

Master Derek dismisses Isaac and has Stiles get in the shower with him and get marked.

"You don't have to wait here alone," Master Derek says. "You can wait at my family's house."

Stiles hasn't thought about where he's going to be while they're fighting, but now he's grateful to be able to stay at Hale House.

Derek and Isaac dress in loose, light clothes in case they need to shapeshift. Stiles throws on an outfit that's good enough and fresh enough for going to Hale House in.

One of Alpha Hale's drivers comes and gets them after dark. They all ride to Hale House, and Stiles stays there when Master Derek and Isaac go with the others on the mission. Isaac squeezes Stiles's hand once. Master Derek kisses Stiles, and squeezes his shoulders for a long moment, which makes Stiles more nervous than he was before. "Be careful," says Stiles, with his hand on Master Derek's cheek. Derek nods. A tiny twitch of smile shows at one side of his mouth.

Stiles finds Contessa in the kitchen with some of the cooking staff, making caramel popcorn balls. Roy is there. It's the first time Stiles has seen Roy in human form. He uses a pair of under the arm crutches, and his left hand has claws. He gives Stiles an uneven smile, but his eyes are anxious. Contessa gives Roy and Stiles each a popcorn ball. Roy leads Stiles into an entertainment room with a fireplace, a low ceiling, and flagstone everywhere.

Roy says, "It's much easier for me to sit on the couch than to kneel on the floor, when I'm in human form. You sit next to me. We'll watch _The Eagle_." Roy lifts his crutches and drops onto the couch. He kneads his knees and grimaces, showing a long, always-shifted tooth. "Every time Alpha Hale agrees to something like this, Peter gets into trouble. He only stays _out_ of trouble because of the alpha. Now she's letting him fight."

Stiles remembers what Scott McCall said: how Uncle Peter went on a tear one time and Bit Scott and turned him into a werewolf. He hopes Roy isn't right about this. He rubs the heels of his hands against his own knees, too, as Roy is doing. Except that Stiles doesn't pick with half-formed claws at the fabric of his pants. They watch the movie. Stiles keeps looking at his watch. Roy keeps checking to make sure his phone is on.

The movie ends with no word from the people who went. Roy stares into the fire. Stiles fidgets too much, sitting on the couch, so he kneels on the stone floor instead. Roy finally hefts himself from the couch and stands in front of the fire.

Contessa brings more popcorn balls into the entertainment room. Roy and Stiles nibble politely, but Stiles determines to keep at least one hand caramel-free, so that he can grab his phone at any second.

Roy's phone goes off. Stiles jumps up and crosses to him. Roy hasn't answered his phone yet when Stiles's rings, too. Contessa takes his popcorn ball from him and he gives her a grateful look. Stiles watches Roy's face for signs of news, even as he's hearing Master Derek's voice on his own phone. "Stiles. Uncle Peter's been hurt." Stiles can tell that from Roy's face.

"Master Derek—are you all right?"

"I'm all right. And your dad is okay. And Deucalion. Isaac is coming to meet you. Me or my mom will call you as soon as Deaton says it's all right for Uncle Peter to come home. We'll meet you at Peter's house."

"Can't we get there ahead of you?"

"Better not. Wait for the car. Isaac will get out and stay with you, and Roy is supposed to switch with him and ride to the clinic. I have to stop at the clinic with Peter and Dad."

"Is Mr. Hale hurt, too?"

"He says it's not that bad, but yes. He says he wants Deaton and the rest of us to worry about Peter. I'm hanging up now."

"Wait! How bad is Uncle Peter?"

"He had to be carried out. Kind of a mess. We'll know more later. I have to hang up now. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Roy is already waiting for the car in the side entryway when Stiles gets there. Minutes go by. Down on the road, a car comes rushing, and Stiles and Roy lean forward, but the sound doesn't slow down at the foot of the Hales' drive. They let out the breaths they were holding. The next car that comes is the one with Isaac in it. Roy replaces him in the car and it drives away.

"Your dad is okay," Isaac says as he sinks into Stiles's arms.

"I know. Derek told me."

"I saw what Alpha Hale does to people. There were a lot of people."

"Clothes. Off. Let me see. Are you hurt?"

Contessa hovers, and holds out her hand for Isaac's clothes.

Isaac shakes his head to indicate he's not hurt, takes off his shirt and kicks off his shoes.

"Come into the entertainment room and sit down with Stiles," says Contessa.

"Did you hurt anyone?" Stiles flitters his fingers near Isaac's bare arm as they walk down the hall.

Isaac's look turns distant and steely and he works his jaw briefly. "Yes."

Now the lively fire in the long, low room looks inviting and comforting. Stiles didn't care one way or the other about it while he and Roy were waiting. Isaac kneels by the couch. "I think your dad and Master Deucalion are coming here? I'm not sure."

"Well, we'll all meet at Peter's, either way." Stiles tries not to let his voice shake. He turns on a lamp at the end of the couch so that Isaac's skin will show any wounds. The firelight only dances over the half of him closest to the fireplace, and changes up all his angles and shadows. Stiles takes Isaac's hands, turns them palm up and feels them over. He runs his own palms down the insides of Isaac's thighs, looks behind his ears and into his eyes, and asks him to flash his eyes for him. Isaac can do it, and turn it off, too, so he's not wolfsbane poisoned. "Okay," says Stiles, relaxing onto his knees and letting his eyes leave Isaac for a moment to watch the flames. "Okay."

Isaac lays his fingers on Stiles's shoulder. Stiles takes Isaac's hand with both of his. "Did your dad get away?" He keeps one hand wound up with Isaac's, and runs his other hand through Isaac's hair. "Did you get him out all right?"

Isaac leans into Stiles, and Stiles runs fingers over his tense back and upper arms. "He got out," says Isaac. "I got him out. I don't know where he is now. He blamed—" Isaac pulls Stiles tightly to him with both hands firm on his shoulders, his mouth near Stiles's ear, and goes on in a whisper. "He blamed me for everything."

"Oh..."

Isaac grips Stiles's shoulders tighter. "I knew this would happen."

"Poor Isaac. Poor guy. I'm so sorry."

"I let him go. I know he didn't stay in that house, but I don't know where he is."

Stiles tugs at Isaac's sides and thigh, and Isaac sidles closer, then curves all around him. Stiles kisses his hair. "Let's go wash your face and hands, okay?"

Isaac disentangles himself carefully from Stiles, and offers his hand to help him up. He waits for Stiles to lead him by the hand to the sink.

Isaac stands motionless while Stiles washes his hands for him. Stiles takes it as an opportunity to check for injuries again. Isaac seems to wake up a little and washes his own face. "My dad will have to go live with free humans. I guess that's all he has left, now." Between splashes he says, "I hope Peter is all right."

"Did you see what happened?"

"Part of it. And I saw Peter, after. His face... well, maybe he'll be bandaged when you see him." Isaac towels off.

"How bad is it? What exactly happened?"

"His jaw is all messed up. He ran into some wire with wolfsbane on it."

"How did it happen? Is he going to live?"

"I hope he'll be all right. I saw him jump—um—those openings. The ones on the walls, by the roof. Some were closed, filled in, some were still open. And this one looked like it was wide open, but it was a trap and Peter jumped right into it. Master Derek had to get up there and help him down. Peter's face, and at least one hand, and the shoulder on that side are all torn up."

"Was Master Derek hurt?"

Isaac shakes his head. "He could see and hear what was happening to Peter. That was enough warning to get up there without getting cut with the wire."

A maid raps gently on the bathroom door frame. "Contessa asked me to bring fresh clothes for Isaac."

Isaac dresses, and combs his hair. He and Stiles look each other over and approve each other for going to visit Uncle Peter, whenever word might come that they can see him.

The side entryway door lands heavily on its latch; Stiles is alert for the sound. He hears his father's voice. Then Master Duke's. Contessa is inviting them into the recreation room. Somebody's put on a new movie in there. Stiles hopes that doesn't mean the wait is expected to be very long. He skids across the flagstones and throws his arms around his father.

"We can get to Peter's house before Peter does," says Deucalion.

"Master Derek said I should wait," says Stiles.

"Very well." Master Duke sinks onto the couch.

Dad sits on the stone floor, by Duke's feet. Stiles and Isaac slip to the floor, too, kneel, and wait.

Stiles startles when his phone buzzes. Uncle Peter's home, and they can all go and see him.  
Contessa rides along.

Peter's butler lets them in. "He'll be so glad you're here."

Stiles has never been to Uncle Peter's house. Everything is in off-white and subdued gold or pinkish-gold. They have to follow the butler through lots of long, high-ceilinged halls to get to Peter.

Master Derek is here, waiting for them outside Peter's bedroom. Stiles grabs him. Hearing his voice on the phone isn't the same as seeing him unharmed, in person. "Thank God."

Master Derek squeezes Stiles so tight around the ribs that it's uncomfortable. When he gets partly loose, Stiles takes one of Master Derek's hands and runs his fingertips over the knuckles. "Are you hurt?"

"No," answers Master Derek. "I'm sorry."

Stiles pulls back, still gripping Master Derek's arms. "What? Sorry for what?"

Master Derek turns his head to the side; he looks as if he might cry. "I didn't really do anything. I didn't get hurt, but... I didn't hurt anybody else, either."

"Isaac says you got Peter out of that trapped hole."

Derek acknowledges that with only a shrug. He leads them into the bedroom and over to the bed. Isaac trails uncertainly behind. Roy is standing by Peter's bed. Uncle Peter is bandaged so the details of what happened to his face aren't visible, but Stiles imagines the wounds anyway, because Isaac told him all about it.

Talia gives Stiles a smile from where she's sitting holding Peter's hand. She motions, and Master Derek lets Stiles go over and let Uncle Peter know he's there. Peter is sleeping; his breathing is loud and sounds uncomfortable. "He was awake when we carried him in," says Master Derek. "Fell asleep as soon as he got into his own bed."

Stiles looks around and feels a moment of panic. "Wait—where's Mr. Hale?"

"At the clinic," says Talia. "He's probably fine, we hope. I'm going to call there in a minute. He wouldn't let the doctor take care of him until Peter was stabilized. We're sure he was hurt, just not sure how badly. Dr. Deaton said there was nothing I could do there now, but as soon as I get word that he's sending Mr. Hale home, I'm going home, too, to meet him there."

Stiles feels as if he might cry. He hasn't cried about any of this, all night. He feels his dad's hand on his shoulder. Dad smiles a little, as if everything is totally normal, as if it hasn't been a totally crazy horrible night.

Isaac suddenly leaves the room. Contessa sees how Stiles hesitates between staying with Uncle Peter and following Isaac, and she makes an encouraging, shooing motion. Stiles pats his dad's hand, ducks away and hurries after Isaac.

Isaac is leaning against the wall in the hallway, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead and breathing erratically.

"What's wrong?" Stiles touches him on the shoulder.

"I can't do this."

"Can't do what?"

"Look at this place." Isaac gestures, wild-eyed, at the hallway.

Stiles looks. "It's fancy."

"I can't be a Hale slave. I'm not good enough. Look at these people. Did you know I used to have perfect posture? Now I have werewolf shoulders. I can't ever seem to get out of the habit of leaning forward."

"You look fine to me. You stand straighter than I do."

"No, I don't."

"Give it time. You're still recovering from the poison."

"Look at this place! Did you look, Stiles? And now..."

Stiles knows what's coming next. It's Isaac's refrain. Stiles is past being irritated by it; he prepares to listen attentively and then to disagree. Isaac doesn't get to make his speech, though. Talia comes into the hallway, followed by a worried-looking Master Derek.

Talia says to Isaac, "You know Peter's going to be okay."

"Yes, Alpha, I know."

"But what's wrong, sweetie? Something else is frightening you."

"I'm fine, Alpha. I'm sorry."

"You can tell me."

Isaac pleads with Stiles, "You tell her. Please tell her what... you know what. I can't."

Stiles gives Alpha Hale Isaac's speech: "When people start hearing how you attacked Master Duke's house and killed all those people, and that you did it because of Isaac, nobody will want him. That's what he thinks. He believes he'll never find a place again. He _knows_ —" with a sidelong, severe glance at Isaac "—that he's staying with us forever." Stiles takes Isaac's hand and bends to get eye contact from Isaac's lowered eyes. "You don't need to find a place, Isaac. You're staying with us forever. Remember, you even told Master Duke that."

Isaac nods, but he has a snarling expression, and still won't look up.

"We didn't kill all those people." Talia speaks firmly and places a hand on Isaac's shoulder. "I didn't kill any children, and there are still people left to care for the little ones." She lifts Isaac's chin. "I didn't do this only because of you. Yes, I did it because of what those people did to you. But I mainly did it for me, and that's what everyone will hear about it. I'm a big, bad wolf and I need to act like one sometimes."

Alpha Hale reaches for Stiles. "Come here, baby." She cuddles Stiles with one arm, and the rigid Isaac with the other. She kisses Master Derek on his forehead when he bows to meet her lips. "All my boys are my babies."

Talia gives Stiles a kiss on top of his head, then gives him one more squeeze. "I'm going to call Deaton and see about my poor husband."

Derek asks, "Do you want me to come home with you?"

"Would you rather do that, or stay with Peter?"

Derek looks torn. "Uncle Peter is more badly hurt than Dad is, it sounds like..."

"Stay here with Peter, sweetie," says Alpha Hale. She takes out her phone and goes back into Uncle Peter's room.

Isaac stands frozen in the hallway. Master Derek holds out his hand to him, but Isaac doesn't move. Master Derek takes a hesitant, shuffling step sideways toward Isaac and gathers him in one arm; Isaac turns to lean on Derek's chest and cup his fingers over his breastbone. Derek jostles Isaac's shoulder. Stiles wraps his arms around Master Derek's waist and smushes his cheek up against his front, opposite Isaac. Master Derek lowers his voice so that a werewolf in the next room would have trouble hearing him. Stiles is right near his mouth, and he can barely make out what he's saying: "It's okay, Isaac. I know. My mother is fucking terrifying." Derek nuzzles Isaac's hair and temple.

“I’m sure she means to be comforting,” says Stiles. “I feel comforted. I’m glad she told us the children are okay.”

"I'll be quiet now," says Isaac. "I'm sorry for being difficult."

"You are not being difficult," Stiles and Master Derek both say at the same time. Master Derek steers them back into Peter's room. Stiles kind of wishes poor Uncle Peter would wake up so he'd know Stiles is there. He doesn't know if he really thinks it'll make Uncle Peter feel better, or whether he only wants it for himself.

Isaac moves around the bed and murmurs something to Roy that Stiles can't hear. Roy answers, "Of course." Isaac gets out of his clothes, shifts into wolf form and climbs into Peter's bed with him.

Alpha Hale goes home to meet Mr. Hale. Contessa asks if they'll need her, but Alpha Hale tells her to stay.

Master Derek falls asleep in a chair. Deucalion turns full wolf and flops on his side on the floor with a groan. Dad dozes, pillowed on Duke's rib cage. Roy seems to be asleep standing up, supported by his crutches. Contessa asks one of Peter's servants to bring extra blankets so she can sleep on the floor.

Stiles says quietly, "Oh, me too!" Isaac slowly lifts himself from by Peter's side, jumps off the bed and wags his tail, meaning he wants to do it too.

Derek half-wakes. "We're staying here?" He calls Hale House to make sure everything is still all right with his dad. Alpha Hale tells him everything is fine, and he speaks briefly with his dad to make sure he's healing okay.

Roy fully wakes. "Let's get pizza ordered up." He calls for a maid to bring pajamas, slippers and robes for anyone who wants them.

"Don't be nervous," Stiles says automatically, to Master Derek. "One of Peter's boys can take the pizza in at the front door." Derek smiles at him.

Peter wakes and gives a startled cry of pain that makes Stiles jump, shudder and hug himself. Dad sits up and Duke jerks his head off the floor. Roy drops onto the edge of the bed and soothes Peter, reminding him what happened. Peter touches the bandage and takes a deep, wet breath.

Everyone is subdued until the pizza comes. Then they're still somewhat quiet, out of respect for Peter's distress, but they can't help being a little happy when slices are distributed. Peter holds onto Roy's hand and motions toward the bedside table. Roy picks up and holds Peter's phone for him so he can type on it with his good hand.

Master Derek receives a text and reads it aloud: "It's cruel to have pizza in a room with a man who can't chew."

Stiles puts down his slice, and Roy says, "Stiles, Peter's kidding. Eat your pizza."

Dr. Deaton stops by. Peter falls asleep again after an injection of pain meds. Stiles naps with his head in his father's lap.

Around dawn, Dr. Deaton comes back again. "Peter is going to be fine, with some uninterrupted rest. Tonight is the full moon. Go to your homes."

Contessa stays at Uncle Peter's house, anyway. Master Derek drags the stiff and yawning Stiles and Isaac home. Stiles forgot that moving the plan up a night meant tonight would be the full moon. He thinks of keeping an eye on Isaac for any early shifting, but Isaac falls asleep easily when they get home. Stiles crawls in with him, and Master Derek climbs in behind Stiles.

********

When Isaac wakes that afternoon, he stares at his hands over the bathroom sink for a long time. "I'm afraid to try making claws, in case it gets away on me."

"I'll stand here and watch you. Master Derek, will you come in here, too, and watch Isaac shift his hands?"

Master Derek stands opposite Stiles, and dutifully looks at Isaac's fingers, while Isaac lets claws arch out from his nail beds. He's so tense he's vibrating, until the claws have grown, and he flexes all his fingers, and relaxes. "Okay. I'm okay."

Stiles scritches him on the shoulder, and they nuzzle each other. Derek leaves the bathroom without comment.

They're all hungry at suppertime, but too unfocused to do anything serious about it. Stiles stares into various cupboards until he forms the idea of nachos with beans. Afterward, he's energized enough to make pudding, which rounds out the meal nicely, besides being soothing because they eat it warm.


	27. Hot Cocoa

********

As dusk falls, Isaac asks, "May I go outside?"

"Outside?"

"Yes, in the yard. May I go out and howl? I want to see if anyone will answer me."

Master Derek seems surprised. "I suppose so."

"May I go in wolf form?"

"If you want to. Stiles, you want to go down with him?"

"Yeah, of course, if you'll be okay here, Master."

Derek waves them off.

Isaac goes into the bedroom to take off his clothes and put them away. Stiles sits on the bed and admires Isaac's bare shoulder blades. Now that he's not quite so thin, he's getting a very pretty back. Isaac confides, "I don't want to disturb you and Master Derek with the noise I'll be making. But I'm worried that I don't smell enough like either of you to be safe outside on the full moon."

"You will be in wolf form, right? And you'll be with me."

"Yeah." Isaac doesn't sound satisfied. No slave in his right mind would go out tonight without smelling like someone, not even with another slave for company.

"I have an idea." Stiles fishes in the dirty laundry.

Stiles and Isaac are on their way out the door when Master Derek expresses his skepticism. "Really?"

Stiles nods rapidly.

Derek raises one eyebrow at Stiles, looks in disbelief at Isaac's stocking feet. "I said _you_ could wear my socks at your discretion," he says to Stiles.

"The front two are mine," says Stiles. "May he wear only my socks?"

"No. Take them all off of him."

"Yes, Master." Stiles tries to coax Isaac into a sitting position, so he can lift his front foot and remove a sock for him. Isaac has other ideas. He slides down onto his elbows, tugs at the toe of a sock on his forepaw with his teeth, then rolls over and holds his leg out to Master Derek, offering the sock to him.

Derek sags. "Just go on down. Both of you." As they go out the door, he calls, "Be careful. Don't run off, or get into any fights."

Stiles thinks Isaac will start howling right away, but he doesn't. He sniffs all around the little yard, in between pots and plants, and all over the grass; he stands on his hind legs and sniffs up a post of the black iron fence. His forepaws, in Stiles's socks, slip on the post. He drops to all fours and stands in the middle of the yard and listens.

Even when Stiles can hear other wolves howling—and there must be more that he can't hear—Isaac only listens.

Finally Isaac wags his tail and howls back, and it's so loud that Stiles winces. He cuddles up to Isaac's fur and feels the howling through his rib cage, touches his throat and feels it there too. He lays one ear against Isaac and covers his other ear with his hand. The sound is unpredictable and intense, and hurts his ears. It vibrates from Isaac and into him.

When Isaac is all done howling and listening, they go inside and play computer games until they're yawning so hard they can't see the tablet screen.

********

The next day, after sleeping in and having a late breakfast, Stiles asks if he can go to visit Scott.

Master Derek is pacing around the apartment with his lips pressed tightly together. Stiles thinks maybe Master Derek is afraid to go somewhere he really wants to go, or that he doesn't want Stiles to visit Scott but doesn't want to deny him.

Finally, Master Derek takes Stiles's hand and explains. "Um.... when you're at Scott's, Isaac and I... we were talking..."

He seems to wait for prompting, but Stiles doesn't know where he's going with this yet and doesn't know what to say. Master Derek licks his lips and continues, "I was thinking... I was asking him... if he'd want to... I asked him if we could, you know, without you here, while you're visiting Scott... Isaac might give me a hand job."

There's a long pause. Master Derek finally glances sideways at Stiles. "Is that all right with you?"

Master Derek doesn't have to ask Stiles's permission. "Yes."

Master Derek lets out his breath and squeezes the back of Stiles's hand. "Okay. If you're sure."

"I think it will be good for you!"

Master Derek licks his lips nervously again. "Good. Anyway, yes, you may go to Master Damon's house to see Scott."

********

Now that the infiltration is over, Stiles can tell Scott everything. Before, it had to be completely secret, even from people the Hales totally trust.

Scott asks, "Is everyone alive?"

"Yes, thank God," says Stiles.

"So, does Master Deucalion get his house back now?"

"No, at least, not right now. Master Duke doesn't want it back. He'd rather live in my dad's house. Nobody's going to just go in and take it, though. There's this man... he's not a werewolf, he's like some kind of dragon. He likes houses that are like castles. I guess he's a friend of Alpha Hale's. Jordan Parrish. He wants to live in the house. So he'll take care of it."

Stiles and Scott spend the afternoon in the library, and take a short walk through the conservatory because Scott knows Stiles loves it.

When Stiles comes home, he asks Master Derek, "Did it go well? Were you scared?"

Master Derek grasps Stiles's shoulder while he searches for words. "It was... very weird, without you. I kept expecting you to be there. But Isaac is really, really good at keeping me calm."

Stiles wishes he were as good as Isaac is at things like that. He feels an icy twinge, then an uncomfortable flop in his stomach. "Do you still need me to keep you calm?"

Derek crushes him into a hug. "Oh, my God, yes." Stiles's stomach feels good again, and the twinge is gone. He finds Isaac in the master bedroom, cross-legged on the bed, mending some trousers.

Stiles plunks down on the edge of the bed, bouncing the mattress and making Isaac weave to regain his balance. "How'd it go?"

"It went really well," Isaac says around a piece of thread in his mouth. He pulls out the thread and cranes worriedly to see if Master Derek is anywhere near. Stiles pops up and closes the bedroom door. Isaac looks fretful, sticks his needle in his work and goes into the bathroom, motioning with his fingers for Stiles to follow. They close that door, too, and Isaac turns on the sink tap. He lays an arm across the back of Stiles's neck and murmurs near his ear. "I hoped the intimacy with him would make me feel marked. I mean, I did it for his sake, first. I wanted to please him, and it was good. Really good. But I was hoping... I know I still smell like sex, and I want that to be enough. I wish it was enough. But it's not."

"I'll bring it up. Don't look so worried. I know you're not asking me to, but I'm going to."

At supper, Master Derek says, "Stiles, Scott's master texted me praising you again. He says Scott does better at his duties before and after your visits."

"Oh. Um. I'm glad."

"You could take a week-long vacation over there and Master Damon would be glad to have you."

"Did he say that?"

"No, he just says he likes you and that you're good company for Scott."

"Do you want me to go over there for a long time?"

"No, I want you to stay here."

"Then why did you say that?"

"No reason. I see you've both finished your salads. You can each have seconds."

Stiles picks up the spoon from the bowl of tomato and cucumber salad. "Isaac can have my next marking. I mean—the next marking you do, it should be his. Okay?"

"We covered this. He only needed to be marked so we could go with everyone else and get Duke's house reclaimed. That's done. I never intended to mark him a second time. He's a werewolf."

Isaac stands up. "I am not a werewolf."

Stiles drops a spoonful of salad onto Isaac's plate. "Isaac, sit down and eat."

Isaac slouches into his chair and aims his fork at his salad, then his face crumples and his hand goes limp, letting his fork rest on his plate. "That was a dumb thing to say, I'm so stupid, I'm so sorry."

Master Derek grunts like an angry bull. "You are not stupid, Isaac."

Stiles has not taken any more salad for himself. "Maybe his werewolf senses are telling him that you'd be marking him, if you intended to keep him."

Master Derek pounds the table, and Stiles startles. Derek growls, "He's _staying_."

"We should take his word for it, Stiles. He's the master."

"If you don't mark him, I will!"

"You won't," says Derek. "You won't."

"I will. He has to smell like somebody."

"He's not yours to mark."

"He's a part of this household. I'm his superior." That still feels strange to Stiles, but he's sure going to emphasize it now.

Master Derek says coldly, "I'm both of yours superior."

"Yes." Stiles's upper lip twitches, not an outright snarl, but Master Derek will see it.

"So you can't mark him, and that's the end of it."

"How much for him?"

"What?" Master Derek's tone and expression are dark.

"How much. How much does Isaac cost, so I can buy him from you, he'll be mine, and I can mark him, and you can just—you can just forget it."

"You can't have him, he's not for sale."

"How much _would_ he sell for?"

"He wouldn't. Nobody would buy—" Master Derek seems to realize what he's saying before he's done speaking. Isaac struggles out of his clothes, turns full wolf, and runs into the plant room.

"I'm sorry," Derek says, all the fight gone out of his posture.

Stiles scrapes his chair back without being excused.

"No, stay," says Master Derek, so Stiles stays, but he doesn't like it. Master Derek gestures hopelessly, and he looks at Isaac's abandoned plate, not at Stiles's face. "Stiles... werewolves aren't slaves, they're pack." He must be watching Stiles at least a little out of the corner of his eye, because he asks, "What? What's that face?"

"Master, um, this isn't meant to be like an insult to you or anything, but finding out he's a werewolf is one of the worst things that's ever happened to Isaac."

"Isaac can... act like a slave."

"You mean he can act like a submissive werewolf," says Stiles.

Derek looks startled, then irritated. "No, I mean he can act like a slave."

A grinding sound comes from the plant room. Isaac is chewing on something, possibly the leg of a piece of furniture. Stiles begins to stand up. "I'd better go check." His voice is wobbly, his chest tight. Master Derek dismisses him with a flick of his fingers.

Isaac is under the bed, raking his teeth against its leg. Master Derek comes in. Stiles sits on the bed and says, "I'm sorry I started an argument about you, Isaac."

Master Derek doesn't say anything. He sits on the bed next to Stiles. Isaac goes on destroying the bed leg, and probably his teeth as well. Stiles dejectedly twiddles his thumbs.

The chewing sounds stop. A second later, Stiles flails backwards when he gets nuzzled on the bare skin of his heel, above his wrinkled-down sock. One of his arms threatens to strike Master Derek, and Stiles pulls it back violently. He jerks one knee up, leaving his other leg dangling. Isaac creeps onto the bed and curls up next to Stiles, on the side farthest from Master Derek.

"Guys... Isaac's a born werewolf. He should be proud to be a werewolf."

"He could be marked and still be proud."

"It would be degrading to him to mark him. And he's not in any danger, not like a human slave. Nobody will try to steal him or attack him."

Stiles massages Isaac under the short, soft fur behind his ear. "But you really want to mark him?"

Master Derek pauses. "That doesn't make it better. I care about him. I care about you, Isaac. I don't want to degrade you."

Isaac shuffles his shoulders and front feet until his head is lying across Stiles's lap, his body around Stiles's behind. Stiles wraps his arms around Isaac's neck.

"Will you stop looking so scared and so—so protective of each other?"

Stiles and Isaac sit up straighter, parting a little from each other.

"Stop obeying me!"

That is one order which doesn't readily suggest a course of action to take. Stiles is flustered and stumped. Finally he becomes determined. "All right, if we're not obeying you—Isaac—turn human again so the scent can get to your skin. We're going to the shower."

Derek says, "I told you you're not doing that again, Stiles."

"I know you did. I remember."

Isaac is human again almost the second Stiles asks him to be, and sits on the edge of the bed not looking at either of them. Stiles takes his hand and Isaac gives a squeeze. Stiles stands. "Come on, Isaac."

"Fine. Do whatever you want. In fact, you can just go free if you're going to have an attitude like that and do things I've told you not to do."

Stiles's grip on Isaac's hand tightens, and he grits his teeth. "Maybe we'll go live with the free humans, then."

Isaac makes a sound like somebody cut him.

"All right," says Master Derek. "You're free."

Stiles is chilled through. Even the air in his lungs feels cold. "You can't do that. You promised never to free me."

"I am the master, and I can break promises all I please."

Stiles is stunned and dismayed for a second. Only a second. "I don't have to like it."

"You'll like whatever I tell you to like!"

Isaac grows hackles, and the hackles go straight up. It looks like there's going to be a fight. Stiles takes a judicious step back, but he speaks, trying to undercut the werewolves' high-pitched snarling. "Don't fight him, Derek."

Master Derek glances at Stiles and shrugs. "I don't know how to fight as well as he does, anyway."

As soon as Master Derek's gaze is off of him, Isaac growls, eyes and teeth flashing, and rushes Derek's personal space. Derek shouts, "Back off, Isaac!"

Isaac defends his face with the back of one hand and tries to talk around his teeth. "I'm sorry. Sorry."

"Don't be afraid of me. I shouldn't have yelled." Master Derek holds out a hand, and Isaac weaves out of reach. Derek pulls his hand back and cradles it. "I know I don't deserve you."

Isaac half-crouches, claws hovering protectively over his heart. "Don't say things like that. You're not fooling anyone, you know."

"But... Isaac, I mean it."

"I understand what you mean. All this talk of freeing Stiles, and that you don't deserve me, like you shouldn't _have_ me, it all means the same thing. You don't want us. You want us to leave." Isaac stalks into the slave's bathroom and locks the door.

It was easier for Stiles to be bold in front of Master Derek when he had Isaac to protect. He cringes when Master Derek's expression changes from bewildered to furious. Master Derek storms off to the kitchen and slams things, growling all the while, leaving Stiles alone. A terrible wail cuts through the wall from the spare bathroom. It's just Isaac, howling.

Stiles kneels on the floor in the living room, shuddering every time Isaac howls. Isaac goes on and on until there's an answering howl from a stranger somewhere else in the apartment building, then he falls silent. Stiles uses his tablet to vengefully send Master Derek photographs of solitary baby animals.

After Isaac has been quiet for some time, and the kitchen has been thoroughly slammed, Derek shuffles back through the living room, into the plant room and knocks on the bathroom door. "Isaac. Please unlock the door. If you're going to lock yourself in somewhere, at least do it in my room."

Stiles hears the door unlatch. Master Derek comes back into the living room, carrying Isaac. Isaac's arms circle Derek's neck and his thighs are snug over his hips. Master Derek is supporting him with hands on his ass, though it looks as if he did let go, Isaac would still cling like a baby monkey. Master Derek carries Isaac into the master bedroom.

Stiles texts his dad. "r u busy?"

"Me and Master Duke are at Hale House, playing Apples to Apples.  
"I'll sit out a few rounds. What do you need?"

Stiles dumps the entire story of the evening in a few haphazardly-spelled chunks of text.

"I had the same argument with Master Duke," Dad texts back. "I told him he couldn't change our relationship just because he was blind and homeless and having a moral crisis."

"What did he do??"

"Wept. Briefly.  
"It was kind of an inconvenient place and time to be having an anti-slavery argument.  
"We had gotten some medicine for him but we had to run from the doctor's because someone found out we were there.  
"So we were running around the countryside, and I had to carry him. We stopped again to hide and rest.  
"Master Duke is heavier than he looks  
"He told me to go on without him.  
"He said then I could get a place somewhere because people would stop chasing me.  
"You know that wasn't going to happen.  
"In the end he let me win the argument." 

Master Derek comes into the living room and tells Stiles, "Isaac's playing a video game in bed. He's calmed down."

Stiles texts Dad, "I love you" and "goodnight". Master Derek stands in the living room, looking around as if his apartment is strange to him, hands at his sides but not relaxed, as if he wants to reach for something but sees nothing to hold onto. Stiles watches him from the floor. "Master, can I make you some kind of refreshment?"

"Um. Oh. Hot cocoa."

"May I invite Isaac to have some, too?"

"Of course."

Stiles cracks the bedroom door. "Isaac, I'm making cocoa."

Isaac is staring at the tablet screen. "Should I come to the kitchen right now?"

"You'd rather play your game, right?"

Isaac glances up. "Let me finish this level?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll fix cocoa on the stove and you can have some whenever you like."

Master Derek pulls out a chair and watches Stiles make cocoa. Stiles pours milk into a pan and starts the low burner. He mixes cocoa, sugar, and a pinch of salt into a little more cold milk in a mug, and stands waiting for bubbles to pop at the edge of the milk in the pan.

Master Derek pats his knee. "Come here."

Stiles lets Master Derek draw him onto his knee. Derek holds Stiles's thigh, and Stiles hooks an arm across his shoulder. Derek returns Stiles's gaze openly. A minute later, the milk on the stove makes a simmering sound. "Hang on." Stiles slides awkwardly off of Master Derek's lap, and stirs in the cold milk and cocoa mixture. He turns off the burner, stirs in a few drops of vanilla, and goes back to Master Derek. Derek reaches out with both hands and pulls Stiles down to straddle his thighs. Stiles laps his wrists over Derek's shoulders. "Do we still have to be free?"

"I said—I said you are."

"You're still breaking your promise."

"I can't go back on freeing you!"

"Just say we're not free. We're yours. Say you made a mistake."

"But you're free. You can go."

"I don't want to go. Even if you didn't say so, I could go anytime I wanted to. I'm rich, my dad has his own house, and I have lots of friends."

"You've never been free. You've been in slavery your whole life. How do you even know whether—"

Stiles scowls at Master Derek, quieting him. "You won't get me that way. My dad was a freeman for nineteen years. And he wants to be Master Deucalion's slave. I'm basically the same as my dad, except not as awesome—but I'm working on that part—so I think it's safe to assume I know what I'm talking about. I know how I feel. I don't need to test it! Are you trying to free me, as a test? Don't do that."

"But I can't even talk about freeing people without there being a fight."

"You weren't talking about people. You were talking about Isaac, and me. And you promised. Deucalion has let my dad win this same argument. You respect Master Duke, right? Everyone respects Master Duke. You can be like him."

Isaac appears in the archway, looking tousled despite his lack of clothes and his short hair. "Are you two arguing?"

"We were. But Master Derek is just about to give in."

"Okay. Good." Isaac yawns. "Do you need me to do anything?"

"No," says Master Derek, eyes on Stiles's face.

"No, thank you, Isaac," Stiles says.

Isaac goes over to the stove, turns the cocoa back on low heat, and gets himself a mug. When the cocoa is steaming, he dips some up and shuffles back out with his mug cradled in both hands.

Master Derek says, "Okay."

Stiles lets out his breath. "Okay. Okay."

Derek tightens his grip on Stiles's ass. They nuzzle, neck, and give each other closed-mouth kisses. Stiles rocks his hips, brushing Derek's cock through his pants, and watches Derek's face. Derek tips his head back and looks at Stiles half-lidded, moves his hand to Stiles’s mid-back, and leans forward, looking for another kiss. Stiles won't lean in. He sits straight and rocks in circles on Master Derek's lap. His toes find the chair rungs, his feet slide back until his heels touch the chair legs. He sits down hard on Master Derek's cock.

Stiles squeezes the outsides of Derek's legs with his thighs, closes his eyes, and finally relaxes forward and lets Derek kiss him on the lips. He tightens his ass cheeks, and Master Derek pants, winces and groans in frustration. "More."

Stiles hitches himself in close and Master Derek helps him, so when Stiles grinds down he barely slides back off Derek's erection. Derek rubs the front of Stiles's pants with the heel of his free hand, and Stiles makes short thrusts to meet his hand. Master Derek's breath seethes, and his grasp on Stiles's ass eases and tightens. His hand stutters on Stiles's crotch. Stiles feels Derek's orgasm pulse through the layers of their clothing while Derek snorts and whimpers in his ear. Stiles comes, sobbing and hiccuping; a tear beads in the outer corner of his eye.

Master Derek's hand lies on Stiles's cheek. Stiles looks up at him, and sits back a little while Master Derek supports him and asks, "Want to get cleaned up?"

"Like, a whole shower? I don't... is it okay if I don't? I just want to get a little cleaned up and get into pajamas. I don't want to be marked tonight." Just for tonight, he wants Isaac to feel like they're the same.

"Let me help you get cleaned up," says Master Derek. "I feel like taking care of you."

Stiles slides off of his lap and takes Derek by the hand. They go through the bedroom to the bathroom, past Isaac, who is dozing lightly with the bedside lamp on.

Derek gets undressed and cleans himself up, then crouches to rub a warm washcloth over Stiles. He gives him a kiss on the point of his hip and stands up. "Bed?"

Isaac moves to the far side of the bed without opening his eyes. Stiles gets in behind him, in the middle, without asking Master Derek where he wants them. He waits for Master Derek to sit on the bed before he speaks. "I'm not doing this to make you mad. But Isaac living with you, in your apartment... it's not the same as you owning him. You keep saying werewolves aren't slaves, even though Scott and Roy are slaves. You don't think Isaac is your slave. You don't want to make him your slave. So, can't I keep him for myself? I won't be taking anything away from you."

Isaac rolls over and blinks sleepily at Stiles.

Master Derek is silent, sitting on his hands, facing away, and Stiles pokes him above the hip. "Master?"

Derek is quiet a while longer. Stiles sits on his own hands to refrain from poking him again. Master Derek licks his lips. "I was thinking... if you mark Isaac and claim him, he won't need me to do it anymore."

Isaac stammers, "I won't ask for that. For you to let Stiles do it. I promise."

"You still want it, even if you don't ask for it, isn't that right?"

Isaac nods and rubs his eyes.

"What if Stiles did mark you? Would you be satisfied then? To belong to him instead of me?"

"Yes. I would. But I won't beg for that. I promise."

"Hush. I just wanted to clarify that you wouldn't need it from me, if you got it from Stiles."

"And I could solve the problem right now," Stiles says to Master Derek, "So that would help you. I'll get started right now! I'll mark him right now. Come on, Isaac."

Stiles jumps up, but Isaac doesn't move. He's watching Master Derek. Master Derek takes Stiles's sleeve. "I told you you're not doing that again, Stiles." Stiles slumps and fumbles his fingers together.

"You can't have him. I want him. He's mine." Master Derek reaches across the bed and lays a hand on Isaac's upper arm. "Come on, Isaac." He stands, and pulls Isaac along by his wrist. "I'm marking you right now."

Isaac gives Stiles one desperate look, and is not easily pulled. "Should I say what I'm thinking?"

"Yes, say whatever you want, say what you're thinking." Stiles flails encouragingly.

"Of course, you should speak freely," says Master Derek.

"I'm not letting you—" Isaac cringes. "I mean, do whatever you wish with me. But I—I—I want—I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I don't want it the way it was the night we took back Master Deucalion's house. I only want you to do this for me if it means you want me forever." He tries to sink in on himself, which he can't do because Derek is holding his wrist.

"Done. I agree," says Master Derek.

"I'm being too emotional." Isaac is still trying to miniaturize himself.

Derek tries to pull him up off the bed. "No, baby, you're not."

"Isaac," Stiles asks carefully, "Are you even sure you want to be marked right now?"

Isaac nods. He lets himself be pulled against Master Derek's chest.

Master Derek asks, "Stiles, you'll be all right for a little bit by yourself?"

"Of course, go!"

It's just as difficult for Stiles to regulate his breathing and control his behavior when he's really happy as when he's scared. He goes into the plant room and calms down, his hand jittering near his face as he sucks in breath and tries to let it out slowly. Then he goes back and flops on Master Derek's bed and texts Uncle Peter. "r u still alive??"

Uncle Peter replies right away. "Vibrantly so."

"ok good  
"can you call me soon? I want to hear your voice"

"My voice isn't 100 percent, but I will call you in a moment. I won't say puppy over the phone because I still can't pronounce p's without spitting."

He does sound garbled over the phone. Stiles doesn't keep him too long, because it seems like Peter is making a lot of effort to speak, but it's a relief to talk with him.

Master Derek and Isaac come out of the shower. Isaac has dried his short curls, and looks fuzzy and drowsy. They all get into bed again. Stiles slides over to Isaac's usual spot. Master Derek lies propped on one elbow, stroking Isaac's upper arm. Stiles dips his nose behind Isaac's ear and takes a deep breath, then sniffs under his chin. Stiles's human nose can't tell the difference, but he says, "You smell really good," which is true. Isaac seems gratified to have someone check the effect. Stiles goes on speaking, to Master Derek: "Look how happy Isaac is. He looks really good. You finally did the right thing, I'm so proud."

Master Derek stiffens; his face darkens. "Finally? Finally I do the right thing? And it's not even the right thing. It's weird. I'm weird. I have a werewolf slave—"

"But Scott McCall's master—"

"I'm not like Scott's master! I can't ignore what other people think and do whatever the hell I want."

"Yes, you can. You can do whatever you want."

"I mean I _can't_ , even in my own house, even inside my own head. I can't. I want to take Isaac out with me, as a bodyguard, to—to help me. But that will just attract attention. Because he's a werewolf and now he's marked like a slave. I can't do anything right. I suck."

"You don't suck, Master. Don't insult yourself in front of me, please. It isn't very nice."

"Also I'm funny-looking, and nobody likes me."

Stiles starts to climb over Isaac's legs, but Isaac wiggles up the bed, out of his way. Isaac touches Derek's chin and gives him a kiss on the cheek. Stiles pats at Derek's hair. "Master Derek, you're pretty. And I love you."

Derek sighs. "Say that again."

" _Master_ Derek, you are pretty and I love you."

Derek sags, and some of the tightness goes out of him. After a minute of silence he tousles Stiles's hair roughly. "You're pretty, too."

Stiles glows. "Thank you."

"Okay, go back over to give Isaac the middle tonight, and go to sleep."

"'Kay." Stiles scrambles back into place, pets Isaac's arm, and gladly falls asleep.

********


	28. Dinner at the Lake

********

Stiles kneels on the floor in the living room and checks his bank account balance online. Isaac wanders in, drying a dish while walking around the apartment, and looks over Stiles's shoulder. Stiles informs him, "I spend basically no money. I think I have more than enough, in my own account. That's not counting yours."

"We should probably start with only one, in any case," Isaac responds, "until we get the first one settled in. What are we going to get first? Girl or guy?"

"Girl," says Stiles. "Master Derek already has the two of us."

Master Derek comes in with his headphones idle around his neck and wants to know what they're talking about.

"We're thinking of buying you another slave," Stiles tells him. "Because you like slaves so much, but you don't like shopping for them."

"We're buying two, but only one to begin with," says Isaac.

"A girl, we think," says Stiles.

"And where are we going to keep this girl?" asks their master.

"Here," says Stiles, waving his hand at the apartment in general.

"She going to sleep in the jungle?" Master Derek means the plant room.

"Can't she just sleep with us?"

"My bed isn't _that_ big."

Isaac makes a brilliant suggestion: "We should live with Master Deucalion and Shannon. They have too much space. We all love them. This place is too small for more people."

"I'm not living in a house Peter owns," Master Derek says sharply. He flops on the couch, leans back against a pillow propped against the arm rest, and picks up a magazine. He snorts, moves the fingers of his free hand, and shuffles his rear around on the cushions. He throws down the magazine, hauls himself up and stalks toward the kitchen. Isaac makes a move to follow, but Stiles touches Isaac to pull him back. Stiles knows how this works. Master Derek is about to give them something amazing. He's working up to it.

Master Derek comes stomping back into the living room and glares at them. "If—if Peter will sell me the house." He seems to be about to say more, but only makes a short, cut-off sound. Isaac stares at him. Stiles wants to jump up, but he's hyperventilating because he might get to live with his dad.

"Yes. So, um. I'll call Deucalion and find out what he and your father think, and then call Peter."

Stiles does jump up, and flings his arms around Derek. Obviously everyone else will approve, so that's not an issue. Luckily, it's easy to thank Master Derek wordlessly, by clinging to him and nuzzling his neck, because Stiles is speechless.

********

Alpha Hale and Derek are sitting on the couch in the living room, talking. Stiles and Isaac are in the plant room, potting extra Draculas to take to the lake and give to anyone in the Hale pack who still doesn't have an Iron Cross Begonia.

Talia tells Derek, "Your father is delurking for the lake this weekend." Stiles drops what he's doing, excuses himself to Isaac and stands in the doorway.

Talia is saying wouldn't you know it, the minute her husband turns human he's talking about chicken pot pie. "And he doesn't have to say 'all dark meat'. I know he means all dark meat. I tell him: Honey, you don't have to have pot pie the very second you get opposable thumbs. Every. Single. Time. It's not like he never gets pot pie. You'd think I starve the man. And I tell him we're going to the lake this weekend, and he's saying, light of my life, I know that, I'm coming with you. Let's get some chicken pot pies to take along.

"And I said honey, dear heart, sweetness, I let the kitchen staff off for the weekend. Because we will be gone. To the lake. As you know. And he tells me that's okay, _you_ , meaning _me_ , can get on the phone and order one.

"I tell him he can get on the phone and order one, but he says the only person he's going to call is you. Did he call you?"

"Yes," says Master Derek. "We had a great talk."

"That's good, honey. Anyway, restaurants and caterers do everything in terms of eight-piece, whole chickens. They've patiently explained this to me until, by now, I'm sure they all secretly hate me." She sighs. "One of the delis will sell me big pot pies, ready-made from frozen, and I guess that's what I'll use again, this time. He'll just have to make do by stealing all of my dark meat. That's what he does all the time, anyway. I don't think I've tasted dark meat since before my wedding."

"I know, Mom."

Here's a pause where Stiles can jump in without interrupting. "I can do it."

"Do what, Stiles?" asks Talia.

"Make all-dark-meat chicken pot pie."

"No, dear. It's too much work. When we take it along to the lake, every wolf there will have to have some. And then there are the humans. I think it's something like ten wolves and fifteen humans going along this time. Your dad will be there, and Deucalion, and that boy..."

"Aiden," says Master Derek.

"Yeah." Stiles is vibrating. "I can do that." In the back of his mind he's automatically calculating from the serving charts on the wall at kitchen training. Eight big casserole pans, even with almost half of the guests being werewolves, will be safe. He just needs to buy the pans and the groceries.

"But we leave tomorrow morning," says Talia.

"I know. But thank you for reminding me," Stiles adds politely, in case that was impertinent.

"It's too hard work for you," says Talia. "It's not worth the trouble."

"Not worth—not worth the trouble? It's _Mr. Hale_."

Talia chuckles. "Yes. But he still doesn't need—"

Stiles is profiting by living with Isaac. He intends to get down on his knees gracefully, but he bangs one knee on the couch frame anyway, and tries not to wince. He eventually gets on his knees, and holds his hands palms up. "Mama, if you don't let me do this, there's a small chance I might possibly die of a broken heart."

Master Derek raises one eyebrow at his mother.

Alpha Hale raises both eyebrows at her son, and takes out her phone. She tells Stiles, "You can use my car, honey. I'll call a different one."

"Isaac! That's enough Draculas. We have to switch projects now. Let's go to the store."

Stiles texts Uncle Peter to find out how many nine by thirteen pans he can do on the closed grill at the same time, and Peter answers three, so they'll make nine pies. They'll have leftovers, if all the pies turn out well.

"You could make as many as you want," Peter tells him. "We could do some in the fire pit." But Stiles decides not to experiment with that this time around. Not with Mr. Hale for sure going to be there, and specifically wanting something Stiles can cook for him.

As soon as he's collected Isaac and they're heading to the store, Stiles admits, "Mama said to use storebought crust. That's meant to save us work. I'm going to pretend I didn't hear her. I can't imagine serving Mr. Hale storebought crust." He makes a face, and Isaac grins.

At the store, Stiles surveys the packaged chicken. "Aiden will want white meat."

"Are you making more than one kind?"

"We might as well, yeah. What kind do you like?"

"White meat," Isaac confesses in a whisper.

"That's good," says Stiles. "It's good that you tell people what you want. You try to teach me and Master Derek to do that in bed, but you can do it all the time."

"I know... but I had classes where the teachers told me everyone would be happier if I expressed my needs, you know, romantically. Chicken flavors are different."

"People like it when you express your needs for dinner, too. At least, with the Hales that's true. Master Derek is always asking me if I like things. Master Duke will want a _lot_ of dark, Dad and I will eat anything. We'll slit the crusts differently on mixed, white, and dark."

"I've learned to order in a restaurant," says Isaac, "because of escort classes. But if Master Derek were here I don't think I could have told you what color of meat I like. It's not really allowed. I mean—it isn't usually."

"Totally. I understand. When Master Derek got me, Dr. Deaton told him I was underweight and I had to eat specific foods in specific amounts. Master Derek had this list. And he would order from the store, whatever was on the list, and give it to me, and I would eat it. But then, Dr. Deaton said I was better, and I could eat whatever Master Derek wanted to feed me. Only, he didn't seem to know how to decide? And he would ask me what I wanted. I'm like, I don't know! I'm not allowed to say stuff like that! If he asked me if I liked something, I would agree with him, which makes it easier. And if you're still hungry, he always serves you more anyway, without you asking. So thank goodness I haven't had to learn to ask for more food. I guess I'll work on that if it ever comes up."

They grab a lot of flour and butter, and Stiles shows Isaac how to pick out a good onion.

While they're paying for the groceries, Stiles says, "We can do this in half the time if I can sear and pot roast all this chicken at once." So, they get the foil baking pans at the grocery store, but also go to a department store and pick up a huge skillet to use alongside the big one Master Derek already owns.

At home, the boys tie on aprons, and Isaac sautees the onion and celery while Stiles sears the chicken, meaning another pan to wash, but saving a little time. Stiles pours water and vinegar into a stockpot with the browned chicken. The chicken can pot roast itself while the boys go on to the next step.

Faced with the reality of nine simultaneous homemade pie crusts, Stiles falters. "Okay," he decides. "Three bowls, and to save time we'll do them all at once. So, Isaac, I'm going to teach you to cut butter into flour. Don't look like that—you'll be okay. I'll be right next to you with my own bowl, and you do whatever I do."

"But what if mine isn't good enough?"

"It's super easy. The rolling out, there's a trick to that, but cutting in butter, there's no trick, you just do it. They let us do pie dough and scones in kitchen training because it's so easy, and all the hard stuff was only for the pastry training people. That's how easy this is."

It turns out not to be that easy. Isaac has a much better time of it than Stiles does, because of his werewolf strength. In a bowl with enough flour for three double-crust pies, Stiles can only manage to get halfway down into the flour with the pastry cutter, with frequent breaks to refrigerate the whole mess so the butter won't melt. Stiles ends up having Isaac cut in all of the butter. Isaac is pleased to help, but worried that if he does it badly, none of the pies will be any good, whereas if Stiles had done some of them, at least Mr. Hale's pie might turn out okay.

Stiles reassures him. "Look, see? This is well cut-in butter. You can tell by looking at it. Beautifully crumbly. Thank you so much. You're making it possible for me to even do this in time to get some sleep tonight."

Isaac smiles slightly, and his eyes and long eyelashes get that soft look that Stiles adores.

"Now we have to get this into dough rounds." Which, as it turns out, is not easy, either. Stiles ends up measuring roughly the right amounts for each dough round and then forming them, rather than trying to make those huge batches into single dough balls and splitting them. 

Isaac scrubs and parboils potatoes while Stiles manages chilling the dough balls. Isaac washes the dishes while the potatoes cool for dicing. Stiles rolls out the crusts, and returns them to the fridge, folded with parchment paper. They're going to use frozen peas and carrots.

Derek is suddenly at Stiles's shoulder. "Will it mess up your amounts for the pies—"

"The possibility of sampling by werewolves is taken into account," says Stiles. Master Derek takes a leg quarter and disappears.

"I'm also a werewolf," Isaac hints.

"That's right, you are. Take your white-meat sample."

Stiles throws the broth and the chicken into the fridge and goes to bed. In the morning, before they leave for the lake, Isaac quickly debones chicken while Stiles makes the gravy out of last night's broth, and rolls out the rest of the crusts.

Master Derek has the boys take turns in the shower with him. All nine pot pies are packed in the trunk of one of Peter's cars. Dad and Peter have already gone on ahead, in a different car.

At the lake, Aiden greets Stiles and Isaac with rough, affectionate thumps on their backs. "Erica is coming up this afternoon or tomorrow. She might bring Bubbles with her. Everyone else is down by the water. We heard your car coming and I came up to meet you."

Uncle Peter's "Hello, puppy" sounds muffled, as if he's speaking behind his hand. Stiles pulls back from hugging him and examines his face. His left eye had a narrow escape. Scar lines from the wolfsbane wires cut right across the outer corner. His cheek and mouth have barely knit, and the back of his hand is covered in thick, raw lines. Uncle Peter insists he can feel himself healing, that the itching keeps him up at night.

"You're not getting any rest? And how do you know the itching isn't from wolfsbane still in your system? You should ask Dr. Deaton."

Peter half-smiles because he can't full-smile. "Believe me. Wolfsbane burns. This itching is that irritating pull that comes when a lot of skin has to fix itself. And I'm getting plenty of rest—too much of it. It's sleep that I'm not getting much of. Don't worry about me. I'm going to be back at the office soon. I'll come by the warehouse the first day, to see you."

"But you can't sleep. Can I text you in the middle of the night, I mean, would that help you, to have some company?"

"Yes, it would. Text me in the middle of the night when we get home. For now, we'll all be here, camping out, in the middle of the night."

Peter has the grill going already. The first three chicken pot pies will take an hour to bake, and then everybody can eat dinner. It will take another hour for the next three to finish, and everybody can have seconds. The last three pot pies will be for thirds, fourths, and leftovers. Stiles will set a few servings aside for Erica, and rinse off some bites of chicken for Bubbles.

Stiles kneels with his plate where he can see Mr. Hale sitting at a picnic table. He's laughing and bumping shoulders with Mama while they eat. The dark meat pie disappears from Mr. Hale's plate, and he doesn't seem dissatisfied with it. Uncle Peter gives him another piece without his asking. Stiles doesn't know whether Mr. Hale would have asked for one on his own. Peter beckons Stiles to come and have his plate refilled, too.

After dinner, while there's plenty of warm daylight left, Uncle Peter and Master Derek sit in folding lawn chairs and argue about Dad's house.

"At this rate," Uncle Peter says maddeningly to his nephew, "I'll officially give it to Shannon, put it in his name. Then you'll be sorry."

"You won't give it to Shannon," responds the aggravated Master Derek. "He won't accept it. No way he'd be willing to own the house he lives in with Deucalion."

Dad contributes to the discussion. "This is true. I would not own my master's house."

"Hm." Peter thinks that over. "Anyway, Derek, I'll do something that will annoy you."

"You are annoying me right now. I intend to pay what the house is worth, or more. You are not giving me that house."

"I can get it appraised for you, Master Derek," Dad offers.

Derek grunts in a way that means thanks.

"Master Peter wants to master us all," Deucalion puts in.

"I beg your pardon, Master Deucalion, but you are the one who just shifted back from wolf form so he could verbally judge me. That makes you an incurable busybody."

"This is the single most immature conversation I have ever been involved in," Derek says in a defeated tone.

"If I had any money of my own, I'd buy the place," says Deucalion.

Master Derek perks up. "I'll give you the money."

Peter is stumped for a moment, then suggests, "Maybe I'll give the house to old Duke. He's homeless since his exile. It excites my sympathy."

"I think I'll buy it," Duke decides.

"I think perhaps you will receive it as a gift."

Duke licks his lips. "Then you must want to fight me."

"Ugh," says Peter. "Not in the slightest."

"Then it's settled," declares Deucalion.

"I'm only letting you get away with it because you're blind," adds Peter after a minute.

"Oh. Why, thank you so much. But anytime you feel less merciful, I'm ready for you."

Stiles stands and stretches, and goes up the slope behind Derek and Peter, to where Talia has unfolded her own chair. She's flipping slowly through a magazine. "Hello, dear," she murmurs without looking up.

"Hi, Mama." Stiles plunks down in the grass next to her chair.

"I don't know why I bring these along every time. They're always so stupid that I want to get through them as quickly as possible. They don't work at all for picking up and putting down."

"Mama, look," says Stiles.

Talia still doesn't look up. "At what, honey?"

Stiles points. "Aiden. He's going to test Isaac's bodyguarding."

Master Derek is sitting with his back to Stiles. Isaac stands four feet away from him. He insisted on slacks and a button-down shirt for daily bodyguard wear, even at the lake, but, as a nod to practicality, he is wearing tennis shoes. Aiden, in fully wolfed form, is lurking nearby, under some saplings growing around the base of a huge tree.

"Isaac must see him," says Stiles. "I can see him. He's totally not very subtle. Don't you think?"

"Mmhmm," says Talia.

"He's going to attack Master Derek, and he'll find out what Isaac'll do. I could have told him. He'll probably break his arm."

Talia looks in Master Derek's direction for a moment, then relaxes again.

"This is gonna be good," Stiles says.

Isaac takes off his shirt and kicks off his shoes. He's going to at least half wolf-out. He neatly folds the shirt, places it near Master Derek's chair, and looks over his shoulder at Stiles. He should be keeping eyes and ears on Aiden. Stiles glances at Aiden, and Aiden is looking right at him, too.

_Oh, shit_.

Stiles screams (quietly, so as not to disturb Mama's reading) and throws himself behind the chair. He flails and paws at the grass until his front half is underneath the seat. Aiden disappears from Stiles's field of vision and reappears at Talia's side. Isaac is crouched in front of her in one bound, staring with flashing eyes at Stiles in his precarious hiding place.

"Boys," says Alpha Hale, "if you tip this chair over, I will rampage."

Stiles sighs with relief, since he's mostly under the chair, within the Alpha Force Field. But Aiden grabs Stiles anyway, with his teeth on one of his ankles, cushioning him with his shoe. Isaac puts his clawed hands around the other ankle. They move downslope, safely out of rampage-causing range, with Stiles in tow. Stiles squawks as he's dragged.

Isaac growls, "I'll hold him down," and rolls Stiles's shirt up to expose his belly. Aiden swabs him with licks, which wouldn't be all that bad, except that he is deliberately being tickly.

"Help! Alpha Hale! You have to help me, they are tickling me literally to death!"

Isaac's fangs recede. "You don't like to be tickled, Stiles?"

Aiden waits for the verdict with his fluffy throat resting on Stiles's midsection. Stiles squeaks and struggles, but they don't let him up, and he admits weakly, "Well, I mean. It is turning me on a little bit."

"Oh, well, if that's all," Isaac says naughtily. "I know you like being turned on."

Aiden nips Stiles's hip and Stiles squirms frantically. "Mama! Being killed. You don't need to leave your magazine. Send help!"

"I'll be there long before you're dead, sweetheart," Mama says, in a not very reassuring, absent tone.

Stiles could seriously ask Isaac and Aiden to stop, instead of pretending he's being maimed, but then they'd immediately stop and leave him alone. A dramatic rescue would be better, if he can get one. He doesn't expect his master to join in. One time when Isaac and Stiles were wrestling in the living room (without prior permission, but there's technically no rule against it, and Isaac started it), Master Derek just tucked his legs up underneath himself on the couch and ignored them.

But then the party is joined by Derek. Stiles recognizes him, though he's never seen him fully wolfed. He's almost as big as his mother. Stiles feels rescued for about ten seconds. Master Derek roars, Isaac goes sprawling onto his ass and Aiden rolls over in submission. Then Master Derek is on top of Stiles, pinning him with his pointy wolfy elbows, and washing him all over his neck and collarbone with his tongue. It still tickles, and Stiles squirms.

"Derek," says Mama from her chair. "Bring him up here."

Derek stands on all fours, and Stiles goes limp. Derek teases at him with his teeth until Stiles rolls over and grabs onto all that fur. Derek noses him and Stiles gets onto hands and knees, then wobbles up and brushes himself off. "Coming, Alpha Hale," says Stiles, and he shuffles unsteadily through the grass up to her.

She looks him in the eye, reaches out and rubs some dirt off of his arm—which is pointless, because he's covered in grass stains—and motions him closer. "Come here."

Stiles comes there, and Mama gives him a squeeze. She looks him in the eye again. "I knew you'd be good for him."

"Uh," says Stiles. "Thank you." he bows slightly.

"Okay, go," she says. "Have fun."

"Yes, Alpha." Stiles makes a move to go have fun. Master Derek is behind him, barely wolfed out now, and picks him up. He holds Stiles under the arms and knees, so his limbs are mostly dangling, except for the one arm he manages to snake around Derek's neck. "Well, hello," says Stiles.

Master Derek carries Stiles a little way off and murmurs, "Is it all right with you if I take you into the woods for some alone-together time?"

"Yeah," says Stiles. "But you'll have to escape Isaac. He'll bodyguard you wherever you go."

Master Derek looks at Isaac, several yards away. "Okay if I explore out aways?" he asks, and Isaac nods. He is sitting on the fully-wolfed Aiden's shoulders. Aiden has twisted his hips partly around and is scrabbling with his back paws, but his shoulders are held flat to the ground sideways, and the most he can do with his front end is almost get his chin in line with the ground. Isaac says, "I think I have hold of the main threat, right here."

Master Derek strides into a wooded area, carrying Stiles. Stiles tips his head back over Derek's arm to see Isaac, "He's watching us go. He won't wait long, then he'll go around us at a distance and do a scouting."

"That's okay with me," says Master Derek.

"Mama said again that I'm good for you."

"I know. She liked to see me playing. It's been a long time."

"So glad to know I'm an approved chew toy for traumatized werewolves," says Stiles's smartass mouth. Stiles waits, but Derek gives no reply. "How come you never complain about my smart mouth?"

"I'm proud of your smart mouth."

Beyond a stand of flickering cottonwoods, a long, winding ditch full of short grasses runs down to pine trees sticking up through darkly shadowed woods. The bright sun makes the grass green-yellow. A fallen log rests on the near side of the ditch.

Master Derek sets Stiles down in this likely-looking spot and nuzzles his neck. Stiles cups Derek's nape. Then he gets it. "Oh— _good_ for you! Hah! I always thought she meant, like a good slave. And of course I totally respect your mother's opinion, but I had serious doubts, you know, I mean, me a good slave, that is not going to happen. That is so funny."

Master Derek chuckles. He rubs noses with Stiles, and when he speaks, his tone is serious. "I won't call you a good slave, because I don't really think that's a compliment. But I think you're a good person, and I love you." He rolls Stiles's shirt up and off, and tugs down his shorts and boxers for him. The grass is warm and dry where the sun touches it, and cooler the deeper Stiles sinks into it. His ass feels cool and the sides of his legs get little warm prickles from the tips of grass leaves.

Master Derek settles back against the black bark of the fallen log and guides Stiles down to put his mouth on his cock. Stiles has never done this before. He plays his fingers through the thick, coarse hairs at the base, then kisses the tip, closed-mouthed, and rubs halfway up and down the shaft with his thumb.

Derek groans and makes grasping motions over his hip as if he's trying not to grab Stiles. Stiles's mouth waters, and he finally has to taste. The tip slips easily between his lips. He licks the head, and presses it against the roof of his mouth. The flat of his tongue slides and pushes over different textures of the shaft and tip. He sucks steadily for awhile, stops once to say the word "Master" just to get Derek a little further toward the edge, and slides Derek into his mouth again. He sucks contentedly for another minute, until a salty drop touches his tongue, and he lets Derek's cock pop out of his mouth. "I don't really know how to swallow."

Master Derek is panting. "You'll do fine. You don't have to swallow. I want to come because of you sucking me but I don't have to come in your mouth."

"Can I try to swallow a little, for practice?"

"Yes—yes. Whatever you want."

Stiles makes a relieved sound and returns with much more determination to sucking the tip of Master Derek's cock. He gets both hands on the base, fingers interlaced across it. The tip gets harder, and Stiles lets it slip off his tongue and into his cheek, and sucks forcibly. Master Derek grips Stiles's shoulders and comes, and Stiles swallows a little. He lets the rest spill over his fingers while he pumps the base of Derek's cock with one hand. Derek trembles, his eyes squeezed shut. Finally he winces and gestures for Stiles to take his hand off his cock, mumbling, "Sensitive." Stiles rests his hand on Master Derek's hip and rolls the taste of come around in his mouth.

Derek lolls and lazes. Stiles finds a handkerchief in the pocket of his discarded pants and gently dabs him clean. Derek groans, hauls himself into a sitting position and scrubs his hands through his hair, fluffing it up. He folds Stiles's shirt on the ground for a place for Stiles's head, and gives him a gentle push on the chest, urging him to lie back. Derek nuzzles the crease of Stiles's thigh, and runs his palm from Stiles's knee to his hip.

Stiles has never had anyone's mouth on his cock. Master Derek snuffles around the tip of Stiles's erection, and presses at the base with his fingers. He licks the underside of the head and Stiles gasps, throws his head back, and gives a small cry. Master Derek takes firm hold of both of Stiles's hipbones, swallows him and sucks on him, hard. Stiles whines and clenches his fists. Sparkling, shooting feelings center around his cock. Everything comes back together into a sort of weighted feeling. His stomach tenses, his head and shoulders lift, and he comes into Master Derek's mouth. Derek sucks down every drop and Stiles gasps and flails. Master Derek pats fondly at his belly, sides, and legs. Stiles moans and stares at the sky.

Master Derek kisses Stiles on the nose and backs away. He keeps just one hand on Stiles's knee, his attention focused in the distance, as if he's heard something. Stiles gets his arms and legs in order and sits up to see what Derek is watching. It's Isaac, striding across the grass on the other side of the ditch.

Isaac jumps the ditch and steps up behind the fallen log. He crouches and rests his elbows on it, his hands under his chin. "Oh, look. The two beautiful men that I live with. What are you up to?"

"Naked good times. Derek communicated his needs."

"Good job, Master."

"Thank you," Derek says gruffly.

"I wouldn't have interrupted," says Isaac, "but your father is walking up here, Master Derek. Should I bring you your clothes? He's kind of dressed up."

"He won't mind what we look like," says Stiles. "He's always dressed up. I mean, when he's human."

Mr. Hale strolls up a minute later. He's wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie; his trouser cuffs are rolled up, and he's barefoot. He nods to them: "Derek. Stilinski. Lahey."

Isaac nods. "Sir."

"Hi, Mr. Hale," says Stiles. He chews his lip to keep from asking whether the pies were all right.

Mr. Hale sits in the grass near the end of the log, where it narrows and forks into old, peeling branches and twigs. Master Derek stands, excuses himself to Stiles as he steps over his ankles, and goes to his father. He sits next to him, and makes a reaching gesture with both of his hands. "Hug me with your arms." Mr. Hale rarely has human arms.

Mr. Hale opens his arms and chuckles as he enfolds Derek, who is bigger than him; Derek bends his head and shoulders so he's curled up under his father's chin.

Isaac has a catlike way of filling vacated spaces. He climbs silently over the log where he's been resting his elbows, into the spot where Master Derek was sitting, and leans on Stiles. He whispers, "You hug me with your arms." Stiles grins widely and does so. Isaac kisses Stiles on the cheek, and a fluttering starts in his chest and goes down into his stomach.

Mr. Hale and Derek get all done hugging, and Mr. Hale gets up, brushes off his suit, and steps over to Stiles and Isaac. He puts a hand on Stiles's head and pets him as if he were a wolf, thumb over his brow, fingers behind his ear. Stiles blinks slowly.

"I like him," Mr. Hale says to Master Derek. "He's very pretty, and he was so kind to convince Talia about the pies. He's a good cook."

Stiles misses a breath in there somewhere and waits to get it back. Isaac gives him a subtle shake over his rib cage, a secret sign of pride, like an invisible punch on the arm.

Mr. Hale asks his son, "Are you going to free him so you can marry him?"

Marry Master Derek? There will be angry, panicked flailing if that ever happens. Stiles will not be to blame if Master Derek gets kicked in sensitive places in the process. Would he even be able to call him "Master" then? Stiles bets not. And he'd have to be free for like a second or more between being freed and doing whatever thing it is that makes people married—signing a certificate, or whatever. Master Derek crouches by him. His words sound like Alpha Hale's. "Breathe, honey. It's okay."

Isaac clings to Stiles, and Master Derek stands again and talks to his dad. "That's not going to happen, Dad, unless he ever asks _me_ to marry _him_. I made a promise not to free him."

"I see," says Mr. Hale. "That's very kind of you, Derek."

Stiles feels as if he's recovering from having been sick to his stomach. He calms himself aloud: "I'm safe. I'm safe."

Derek crouches again and touches Stiles's hair. "You can trust me. And Dad. He only meant I shouldn't let you get away, and I won't. I won't. Isaac, give him to me, please." Master Derek takes Stiles on his lap and Mr. Hale sits quietly, leaning against the log, an arm's length away.

Isaac tries to soothe Stiles. "You know, being married, it's not like being free. It's a forever thing."

"I know," says Stiles. "My parents were married. But you have to both be slaves, or both be free, to be married."

"You could still call him 'Master' in private."

"I'll think about it. Maybe... if you married him too, Isaac." Isaac stiffens next to him, and Stiles pats Isaac's hand.

"It's easy for me to say you should do it," Isaac says shakily.

Talia appears, standing there looking at both of them, Stiles in Derek's lap and Isaac trembling. She demands, "What did you do to them now?"

"I'm fine, Mama, don't worry," Stiles says quietly.

"I'm afraid I mentioned marriage," Mr. Hale confesses. "I didn't know."

"It's okay, boys," Alpha Hale says to Isaac and Stiles. "Don't worry about it. You're my babies whether you marry Derek or not."

Master Derek asks, "You been wolfing out, Mom?" Because she was fully clothed last time they saw her, and she is now completely naked.

"I'm looking for Deucalion and Shannon," Talia replies. "When I find them, I am going to bite each of them all over. They stole my magazine before I had a chance to look at the reader anecdotes inside the back cover."

Mr. Hale laughs. "If they stole your magazine, they must _want_ you to bite them all over."

"Well, that's what they're going to get. Do you want to help me, Derek?" Talia means her husband, not their son.

Mr. Hale looks down at himself and chews his lip. "I'd have to do my buttons."

"Stand up and I'll help you."

Mr. Hale stands and lifts his chin, and Alpha Hale unbuttons his suit coat and his shirt for him. They step over the fallen log and disappear down the slope into the dark woods.

Stiles collects his clothes and gets dressed. In the process of pulling his pants on, he looks over at Master Derek and Isaac, and his heart clenches. They're holding hands, heads bowed, foreheads touching. Isaac lifts Master Derek's hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles.

"So much for our private spot," Master Derek says good-naturedly, as Aiden comes up in human form, holding something cupped in both hands.

"Stiles, look."

"Open your hands and show me."

A chipmunk sticks its tawny, striped, wiggly nose out between Aiden's thumb and first knuckle. Stiles is suitably impressed.

"Would you like to keep him?" asks Aiden, "Or eat him? You could grill him."

"No. Thank you though, Aiden. You should show him to my dad and then let him go."

"'Kay. Uh—" Aiden glances about and sniffs the air "—you have any idea where your dad is?"

"Probably up by the grill and fire pit," Stiles murmurs, eyeing the dark woods into which Alpha and Mr. Hale have disappeared. "So the cooking and the other people will mask his scent. I know he's not hiding where Mama and Mr. Hale are looking. He'd never hide from werewolves in the woods. The advantage is all theirs."

"If he's hiding, maybe I'd better not go right away. Might give away his position. The least I can do is not betray them. Your dad and Duke still haven't come up with anything for me to do at home. They won't take my money for rent."

"I think they just like you. Let's go find them before Mama—I mean, Alpha Hale does."

Master Derek and Isaac come along, holding hands. Uncle Peter is at the grill, and the scent of pine needles and lake vegetation is overlaid with the smell of hickory-smoked bacon.

A sandy bank held together by pine roots is wearing away on one side of the cooking area. Under it sits Dad, rubbing Master Duke behind the ears. Duke is in wolf form, and has Mama's magazine rolled up in his mouth. Dad motions Stiles over and whispers, "Where's Alpha Hale?"

Stiles points a thumb over his shoulder at the woods. Dad nods and settles back against the sandy bank, and his hand sinks deeper into Master Duke's ruff. Duke leans his head into the scratching and stretches his forelegs.

Somebody calls a hello from up the slope. It's Erica, coming down from the parking area. Stiles runs to meet her. She's carrying Bubbles, who is wearing a leash, and a harness covered in little, pink, cloth ribbon bunches shaped like roses.

Aiden and Erica kiss each other hello. Aiden shoves the chipmunk under Bubbles's nose. "Do _you_ want to eat him?" Bubbles noses the quivering chipmunk once, and purrs. She lifts her head, half-closes her eyes, and sniffs in the direction of Uncle Peter and the bacon. Aiden goes down the bank to where Shannon and Duke are lounging, and shows them the chipmunk on the sly.

Erica wants to get in some swimming before sunset. Stiles holds out his arms. "I'll look after Bubbles for you, Erica." But Master Derek reaches past him.

"I'll watch the cat. Let me do something useful. Stiles, you relax."

"Want to come in swimming, Stiles?" Erica asks.

"No, thank you, I think I still need more time to get used to the water, sorry."

Erica blows him a kiss and walks down the beach.

Master Derek sits on a picnic table bench with his back to the table and watches the lake, Bubbles in her pink harness under his arm. Isaac stands behind the table.

Stiles hovers. "What should I do to relax?"

"Do whatever you like. Anything you like the most to do."

"Can I just kneel by you?"

"If that's what you want to do. Wouldn't you rather go sit by your dad?"

Stiles considers. It might be nice, but one way or another, Mama and Mr. Hale will be here soon, and Dad and Duke will take off running, if they don't get tackled immediately. Even if Mama and Mr. Hale don't find Dad and Duke directly, they're sure to stumble across them when they smell bacon and come to get their share.

Uncle Peter hands Stiles a plateful to take down the bank to his dad.

"Thanks, kiddo."

Deucalion drops the magazine long enough to chomp one piece for himself.

Stiles has a slice of delicious bacon at Uncle Peter's invitation. Then he kneels on the thin grass by the picnic table, at Master Derek's feet. The cool, sandy ground gives a little beneath his knees. "Isaac, come."

Isaac steps around the end of the table and stands at attention next to Stiles. "Down here." Stiles pats the dirt, and Isaac kneels. One side of his mouth twitches up.

Bubbles pauses in her purring only once, when Aiden lets the chipmunk go. She focuses on it as it scurries off as fast as it can go through the grass. In a moment the rustling ceases, and Bubbles’s purrs are again as steady as the brushing of wind through the pines, and the lapping of the lake.

 

_The End_


End file.
